Chapter Text
Tim was officially having the worst day of his life, which only compounded as Jason hefted his gun and said his stupid little cowboy line.
The momentary clenching and unclenching of his jaw was the only giveaway that Jason had noticed the change in weight. The gun was lighter, of course, because Tim had filched all of Jason’s ammo back at the tower.
“Okay, boy genius,” Jason muttered under his breath. “Any other brilliant tricks you wanna tell me about?”
“I wasn’t about to let you walk in here and shoot Batman,” Tim hissed back.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Jack Drake barked, irritated at the unexpected arrival.
Tim closed his eyes. This genuinely couldn't get worse.
“...Jason?" whispered Bruce. From here, it looked like his hands were shaking. God fucking dammit.
“Wait a minute. Is that Tim?” Jack squinted at where Jason and Tim were still situated by the shadowy transportation docks and recoiled with feigned dismay. “Is that you, boy? My god, what’ve you done to yourself?”
Tim swallowed against a wave of nausea and didn’t respond. His dad wasn’t just going to pretend he didn’t know, was he? He couldn’t. That was too far. Even for him.
Bruce kept stealing disbelieving glances at Jason.
Jack waved a hand as if to dismiss the topic, peering at Tim with familiar, judgemental scrutiny and scowled. “Get off that man, boy. You’re not an idiot or a child; you can stand on your own.”
Tim twitched as if to obey before the hand supporting his knee tightened painfully.
“Don’t even think about it.” Jason bit out. Tim let out a shuddering breath and tightened his grip on Jason’s shoulders in reply.
He wasn’t alone in this. He had an ally.
An ally he barely trusted and had actively sabotaged in order to prevent the guy from murdering Batman in a random fit of insanity, maybe. But an ally nonetheless.
"Listen, Tim, just...don't try any fancy shit. Just stay put. You'll be fine." Jason seemed...tense, Tim realized. Almost like he was scared.
There was a gun pressing into Bruce’s neck. Tim had been preoccupied by his own father, but Jason hadn't looked away since they'd arrived. If Jason was scared, right now, it was because he didn’t want Bruce to die.
Tim turned his eyes on the scene, taking in as much detail as he could.
There were moments, here and there, where Jack’s attention would drift, and the gun would follow. Tim tracked the movements carefully, thinking maybe—but Jason didn't even twitch, even though Tim knew for a fact Jason was watching just as closely.
"Dad has no idea what he's doing," Tim murmured in Jason's ear, trying not to draw attention to himself. “He doesn't even have the safety off. With the right timing...maybe you could—"
“No.”
"But Jason—"
"I don't care. However long it takes me to get to him and possibly take him down leaves you unprotected in the same room as the man who beat you half to death"—a bit of an exaggeration, Tim thought—"and leaves him with a clear shot. You can't run. You don't have any armor." Jason adjusted his grip on Tim's leg, hoisting him a little more securely. "I can. I do. So I'm not going anywhere."
Tim had disarmed Jason against his knowledge and left him offenseless in the face of a threat. Right now, Tim was worse than dead weight.
But Jason wasn't going to abandon him, even if it was the tactically correct choice. Jason was all but offering to take a bullet for him.
Protect victims first. Basic Robin protocol.
How many times as a kid had he dreamed of Batman and Robin magically appearing when his parents were angry and whisking Tim away to safety?
Tim wasn't a kid anymore, and he knew better than anyone that heroes were just people.
Still. Tim took a moment to press his cheek to the back of Jason's shoulder, quietly overwhelmed to find himself, against all odds, under the protection of his childhood Robin.
Watching Jack and Bruce chat was oddly dull, for a hostage situation.
Sure, Tim was scared, but that was personal. He wasn't especially worried for Bruce.
Jack wasn't getting any better at the whole villain thing. Even from here, Tim could tell from his grip that his dad had never fired a gun before.
Bruce seemed about as impressed with the hostage situation as Tim was, and Jack seemed to be struggling to maintain his bravado in the face of Bruce obviously humoring him.
“Okay, Wayne. Okay. How about this?” Jack was smiling through gritted teeth. Tim couldn’t see his face, but he knew the tone. “My primary concern is for the safety of my son. Let me take the boy home. I’ll keep your...nightly transgressions to myself, as long as you leave him out of it. Sounds fair, yes?”
Bruce sighed. "Jack…"
Jack turned to face Jason and Tim impatiently, with the air of a man used to getting what he wanted. “Come on, boy. We haven’t got all night.”
Tim’s breath caught. This couldn’t—he couldn't take Robin, Tim was nothing without Robin, his dad was going to hurt him again lock him in his room again and he didn’t have anywhere to go—
“Absolutely not,” Jason answered before Bruce could. Which was pretty rich, considering his position at the beginning of the night. “And cut the ‘boy’ crap,will you? Don’t talk to him like he’s a fucking dog, he’s fourteen.”
“He’s thirteen,” Jack said.
“Actually, I’m fifteen,” Tim volunteered.
“Don’t lie, Tim,” Jack immediately snapped.
“But I’m not—”
“Based on the events of tonight, Tim,” Jack snarled, “You have been lying to me so much that I would be justified in never believing another word that comes out of your mouth. What would Dana think? What would your mother think, Tim? Do you think she’d be proud of your behavior?”
Tim didn’t answer. Anything he said right now would just make his dad angrier.
“That is completely uncalled for.” Bruce stepped in front of Jack, blocking him from Tim’s view. His tone was tight with anger. “I do not make bargains with children as leverage, Jack, and you will not speak to Tim that way as long as you are in this cave.”
“You can’t tell me how to speak to my son! You have no authority here!” Jack spat. “I know your identity. I have full custody of Tim. I have a gun! Now,”—he bared his teeth—“I want to speak to my son. Alone. Away from your influence. You do not have any right to keep him from me!”
Jason’s hands were trembling, but Tim didn’t realize why until Jason spoke. “Bruce. Don’t listen to him. Don’t trust him. Don’t let him anywhere near the kid.” Because of course. Those were Jason’s first words to his father in six years.
Bruce looked at Jason for a long moment, less like he was questioning him and more like he was drinking in the sight of him. He met his son's eyes with his own and nodded firmly.
Squaring his shoulders, Bruce turned on Jack. “This private conversation will not be happening. Anything you want to say to Tim, you can say in front of me.” His eyes narrowed. "If you can't control yourself, you can leave."
The sound of footsteps thumping down the grand staircase made them all jump. Dick's voice rang out through the cave. “Bruce, I got your message. What's this about Tim being missing? His subdermal tracker says he's—"
Dick came into view as he reached the first landing. He'd clearly just come from the community center, still sweaty and wearing his civvie workout gear. He froze when he saw them.
"Mr. Drake? What—?" Dick's eyes scanned the room, trying to take in the scene. "Tim—JASON?" Dick swung himself over the railing to land on a lower balcony, clearly intending to flip himself down to the cave floor as quickly as possible. "Bruce, what's going on?"
"Dick—" Bruce ran closer to the staircase, either to meet him or stop him. Tim didn't know which.
"DON'T MOVE!" Jack Drake bellowed, leveling the gun at Bruce's chest, now several yards away, unwittingly gaining the upper hand.
Dick immediately stilled, throwing his hands up and backing away from the rails. His eyes were trained, worried, on Bruce.
Bruce nodded acquiescently, and took a step back towards Jack.
"STAY OVER THERE!" Jack shouted, waving the firearm in front of him like a child.
This was bad. Tim knew it, and he bet Bruce knew it too. Before, the gun had been within grabbing distance, and Bruce honestly could have subdued Jack at any point. Now Bruce was out of reach, and Jack seemed set on keeping him there.
And the number of armor-less potential victims had just gone up by one.
Jack, sensing the change in the room but clearly not understanding it, seemed revel in the hold he wielded over his finally captive audience.
“You want to hear what I have to say to my son, Bruce? Fine.” Jack spat, and thought of anything else fled Tim's mind in a sickening rush. “My son has been moody and difficult for months now; he’s constantly picking fights, disrespecting Dana and myself, lying and keeping secrets—although I clearly underestimated to what degree.”
Tim’s eyes prickled. This wasn’t fair. Batman was hearing this. Bruce was hearing this.
“His grades, in particular, have suffered a great deal. He’s such a bright boy; I don’t think it’s appropriate for him to squander his time and energy at the expense of his academics.”
That was a lie. Even if they weren’t great, his grades were better than they had been in middle school. School was just—hard for him, if he couldn’t engage with the material. His father was lying. This was a trap. This was a trap.
But Bruce was listening. Dick was listening. He couldn’t let them think—
“That’s not—” Tim croaked, and his father rounded on him, a victorious expression of carefully set scorn pinning Tim in place. Tim had taken the bait and contradicted his father, in front of other people, and Jack was already furious with him—
“Then what, Tim?” Jack said sharply, clearly enough for everyone to hear. “You always say you’re so smart, you always whine about wanting to be taken seriously,” That wasn’t true, Tim didn’t do that, that wasn’t true, “So why don’t you explain to me, and our good friend Batman, since you’re so keen on him being here for this conversation,” that wasn’t fair, Tim hadn’t—it was Bruce who— “Why you’re failing three classes? Why you don’t have any friends? Why you wear the same filthy clothes week after week? Are you stupid, or do you just not care what people think about you?”
Tim swallowed thickly and pressed his face against Jason’s back. He felt numb, running on the most basic commands. Don't cry. Don’t look at Bruce. Jason was saying something, but Tim couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears.
Instead, Tim heard his own hoarse voice, responding automatically. “I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want an apology, Tim. I want an explanation.”
Tim’s throat was closed up with the effort of not crying. His eyes blurred. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to say it in front of Batman, he didn’t want to—
“You will not speak to Tim that way.” Bruce sounded angry.
“Oh, I can’t even ask the boy about his grades now?” Jack let out a mocking laugh. “Is this what you wanted, Tim? You wanted to throw away the last living member of your family because Batman doesn’t make you do your homework or wash your clothes?”
Tim buried his face in the back of Jason’s jacket.
“Do you think if you hang around underfoot enough, he’ll play house with you, and you can wash your hands of the father who raised you?” Jack was shouting now. “After the grief you’ve put me through, you really think anyone would deal with you by choice?”
Tim was going to be sick. Bruce was going to hate him. It wasn’t true— or was it? Jason had said—
"It's not true. Don't listen, Tim." Jason murmured. "Robin is something Bruce only gives to people he loves. You know that." Jason's voice sounded strange. If Tim had the wherewithal to wonder, it might have sounded like Jason was crying.
“Get out of my house,” Batman growled in a tone that every Robin in the room recognized from particularly harrowing patrols.
Jack swore at Bruce, either ignorant of the danger or just not caring. “Don't tell me what to do. I am his father. And I think whether my son spends his time playing house with strangers and prancing around the streets at night dressed like some kind of faggot is something I should have a say in.” The silence in the Batcave was suffocating.
Tim could barely think. His dad had—
Had called him—
In front of Bruce—
Batman stalked into Jack’s space and hauled him up by the collar of his shirt, bleeding fury and ignoring the firearm completely. “I seem to have not made myself clear. You will leave and you will not be taking Tim with you. If you walk out of this cave under your own power tonight, know that it is an act of mercy.” Now that was a tone Tim had never heard before. “This is my mercy. Take it, Jack. Before I do something you, and only you, will deeply regret.”
Jack Drake was not a brave man. Adults who hit children rarely are. But Jack Drake was a prideful man, and Tim had no idea how his father was going to respond.
It's a split-second decision.
The shot rang out.
Bruce lurched back with a shout, clutching his arm.
Jack had shot Batman. Even this close, his aim was horrible, but it gave Jack the distraction he needed to—
To—
To come after Tim. Of course.
Jack ran towards Tim, snarling profanities and—
And Jason went up on the balls of his feet, preparing to, what, outrun a bullet? Tim had no idea what Jason was planning, only the sharp terror that it wouldn’t be enough and—
And Tim, caught between the terror of a child who’d never been protected from anything and the unerring instincts of a Robin (be quick, be clever, move first, DON’T LET JASON GET SHOT IN THE FACE PROTECTING YOU) used his hands and knees to fling himself from Jason’s back, leaping almost 10 yards away and into a roll that began smooth but ended shudderingly.
Tim tried to flip into a standing position, twisting to keep his eyes on Jack, but his feet screamed and refused to support him. His back slammed unforgivingly into the ground. It was like being dipped in acid. Tim swallowed a scream, his vision whiting out for a second.
Jason had been thrown to the ground by Tim’s wild leap; he lurched to his feet with a snarl, tossing the useless gun aside as he charged. Bruce recovered quickly and raced to intercept Jack, hand clamped over a bleeding wound. Nightwing vaulted the balcony with a furious shout.
No one would reach Jack before Jack reached Tim.
But the batarang that cleanly stole the gun out of Jack's right hand did.
Jack was almost upon him, hand reaching to grasp Tim’s collar (or wrap around his neck), hissing that his son was a liar and a traitor, his face twisted in an enraged snarl; Tim, sick with fear and still panting from pain, wrestled the taser from the pocket of his sweatpants and pumped 10 million volts of electricity into his father’s chest.
When Bruce saw Tim take down his father (brilliant, clever boy), he stopped in his tracks. Jason, casting nervous glances around the cave, skidded to a halt as well. (Jason was alive).
Dick did not stop. Dick kept going, following the projectile he'd used to disarm the man, and tackled Tim’s now-motionless father with enough force to send them both skidding across the floor of the cave, the still-attached taser thunking along behind them. Dick was yelling.
“—You’ll stay the fuck away from him, you’ll never look at him again, do you hear me? If you go anywhere near Tim, I’ll make you regret it. I'll make it hurt—”
Tim had pulled his knees up to curl into a tiny ball and was breathing in thick, rattling gasps. His hands were clamped tightly over his ears, and blood was starting to seep through the thick socks on his feet. He was watching Dick and his father with a stiff, unreadable expression.
Jason was visibly losing his nerve. Whatever bravado had powered him here in the first place was quickly leaving him. His face was pale and his shoulders hunched as he edged back towards the Zeta tubes. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow.
Dick pummeled Tim’s father with his bare fists, weapons discarded, screaming threats and dealing strikes that echoed off the walls of the cavern and made Tim cringe further into himself the longer it went on.
Bruce needed to—
He needed to save Jason, help Tim, stop Dick, ignore how much he wanted to hurt the man himself, Jason was alive, Tim's father has been abusing him who knows how long and Bruce hadn’t seen it, Jason wasn’t dead, Dick was sobbing, Dick was going to beat a man to death, Jason was alive—They needed him, they needed him to—
His shoe clicked against the discarded gun, stopping him in his tracks.
Bruce needed to get Tim away from his father as soon as possible.
Bruce needed help.
He took a deep breath and spoke in a loud, clear voice, angling his chin upward. "If you're listening—" He swallowed. "If you're listening. This is me, asking. I’m asking." Bruce closed his eyes. "Please." His voice didn’t shake.
There was a rush of warm wind and a sturdy hand on his shoulder. Bruce soaked it in for the barest moment before opening his eyes to greet his oldest and most dependable friend.
Alien blue eyes darted around the room before meeting Bruce’s, positively swimming with questions, but Clark said nothing beyond a firm, gentle, “What do you need me to do?”
Deferring to Bruce, because this was Bruce’s home and family. Not using names or titles because Bruce was out of costume in the Cave with a civilian present and Clark didn’t want to put them in jeopardy. Not asking questions because Bruce honestly couldn’t have handled it right then. Coming when he called. Helping him just because he asked.
Bruce looked away. Bruce had a family to take care of.
“That,” Bruce pointed to the bloody heap that was currently crumpled beneath an enraged, hysterical Nightwing, “is Jack Drake. He’s been hurting Tim. He knows our identities. Get him as far away from here as possible.” Bruce’s voice was hollow.
Clark wrapped a firm, affectionate arm around Bruce’s shoulders and squeezed once.
A blur of red and blue circled the room in a grand arc, and Jack Drake was gone. Dick Grayson, in tears, knelt where the man had been, splattered with his blood.
Bruce got to work.
Dick, kneeling on the floor, crying, furious, overwhelmed, was the closest.
Bruce pulled one of Dick’s arms around his neck, wrapped an arm around his waist, and hauled the young man to his feet.
Dick’s head snapped up, frantic. “Bruce. Bruce, you got shot. You got shot. Are you okay?”
Honestly? Bruce had all but forgotten about it. "I can barely feel it."
Dick was breathing too fast, obsessively checking Bruce over, searching for the fatal gunshot wound being craftily concealed from him.
“You didn’t have any armor—You were just in your pajamas—”Dick’s voice shook.
It was a scary thing, watching your dad get shot.
“I’m fine, Dick.” Bruce smiled. “That sniveling coward was a lousy shot. Point-blank and it barely grazed me." He squeezed his son's shoulder. "Deep breaths, now. Nice job with the batarang."
Dick smiled back, just a little. "I didn't think I'd make it if I pursued directly, so I went for the tool station first. It was closer."
Bruce ruffled his hair fondly. "Good instincts." Dick's smile grew as he played it cool and batted Bruce's hands away.
Dick wasn’t hurt, but Bruce stayed close. Physical touch was always the most effective way to soothe and comfort his oldest partner. Dick’s breathing grew steadier and he supported his own weight more while simultaneously curling closer to Bruce.
Together, leaning on each other, they approached Jason. Jason looked exhausted. Jason looked terrified. Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away, scared that if he blinked, Jason would disappear. Jason was older, grimmer. He had new scars, some Bruce recognized from his battered corpse. Several of them, Bruce couldn’t place. Jason’s hair was streaked with white and his eyes were bloodshot. He was taller than Bruce now. Jason was alive and breathing and looking at him.
Slowly, Bruce reached out and touched his son's face. He felt warm. He felt real. “Jason—” Was all Bruce got out. Jason's face crumpled, and Bruce pulled his boy into his arms and beheld him, strong and solid and so different than before but undeniably real.
“Bruce, listen. I’m not what I was before, I’m,” Jason was shaking slightly. “I’m different. I’m...there’s something wrong with me.” He looked Bruce in the eye. “And more than that: I’ve broken the code, Bruce. I’ve been killing people. I’m the Red Hood.”
“I don’t care, Jason.” Bruce held his son tighter. “You’re here, you’re alive, we can handle anything else. I don’t care.”
Dick was reaching between them to hold Jason’s face between his hands. “It’s you.” He sounded like he was crying. “It’s really you. Jason, I’m so sorry—”
“Please stay for dinner,” Bruce whispered. “I don’t have any right to ask you to come back. I can’t tell you what to do. I’ve let you down too much for that. But please. Stay for dinner. Give us your number. Let us know you're safe.”
“Yeah,” Jason whispered back. “Yeah, okay.” And his arms came up to wrap around Bruce, and then Dick’s arm’s enclosed them both, and they stood there for a moment, just holding each other. A team and family broken half a decade ago, impossibly reunited.
But not whole.
With Dick steady beside him and Jason safe between them, Bruce turned towards his youngest. Tim had raised his head and was watching them with wide, careful eyes. His arms were curled around his knees and he was shivering. Bruce took off his housecoat and settled the warm, soft garment around Tim’s shoulders. Tim immediately curled his fingers into the fabric.
Bruce knelt in front of him to make eye contact, placing his hands on Tim’s knees.
Jason and Dick hung back, leaning on each other, intentionally giving Tim and Bruce space.
It's easy to overwhelm a traumatized kid, so interactions should be one-on-one to keep them from feeling outnumbered.
Robin Protocol.
“Hey, partner.” Tim hates to be treated like a child, Bruce knew. Tim hates being told what he’s supposed to be feeling. “Report?”
Tim relaxed slightly. “Not gonna mince words, Bruce. It’s been a pretty rotten day.”
Bruce smiled at him. “You know, I believe you.”
Tim blinked at that, looking oddly emotional for a second, before smiling back. “Thanks.” He fidgeted with the robe. “Hey, Bruce?”
“Yes, Tim?”
“That stuff my dad was saying,” Tim started, voice wavering, “I’m not—I became Robin to help, I swear. I wasn't trying to, to invade your family or something—"
Bruce gripped Tim carefully by the shoulders and shushed him.
"Tim, no. Tim...as far as I’m concerned, you're already family. I love you and I trust you with my life. You know that." Bruce needed Tim to understand. "Listen to me, Tim. Y our father said those things because he was trying to hurt yo u. Y ou did nothing to deserve any of that." Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. "Tim, you have to believe me when I say that I didn't know. I would never knowingly send you back to a house where you weren't safe, and I'm sorry I failed to protect you. " The open, aching expression on Tim's face made Bruce's chest hurt, and he pulled him into a hug. The embrace was cut short when Tim let out a sharp scream.
Jason swore. "Shit—Be careful. Tim's hurt. Are you okay?" he waved him off with a pained wheeze.
Batman and Robin considered each other, Tim nervous and Bruce knowing.
“Robin didn’t patrol tonight,” Bruce said so, so gently. “Tim…did—?”
“Yes. Yes he did, and Jason patched me up. He can fill you in on what happened," Tim said miserably. "I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want anyone else to see it. At least not tonight.” Tim curled in on himself. “I don’t want to take off my clothes around anybody right now.”
A cold, sick terror flooded Bruce’s chest, stealing the air from his lungs. “Tim, he...he didn’t—”
“No!” Tim said hurriedly. “No. Not that. Nothing like that.” Tim took a breath. “He just. He got me when I was in the shower. Dragged me out by my hair. That was the worst part, I think. Being...you know. And I just want to keep my clothes on right now,” Tim repeated, tugging Bruce’s robe more tightly around himself.
Bruce settled his emotions forcefully. “Not a problem. Anything we can do to make this easier for you.” Bruce considered him seriously. “What’s the next step here, Tim? What do you need from me?”
Tim was quiet for a second, visibly stealing himself. “Bruce, you can’t kill my dad,” Tim said in a rush. “I’m really sorry this happened, but Batman is too important, the work you’ve done is too important to throw it away over this. There’s work-arounds to him knowing about us, I’ll, I’ll figure something out. He won’t go to the press right away. Even if you have to...to send me—”
“Tim.” Bruce gave him a firm, gentle shake. “Listen to me. Robin.” Bruce rubbed the boy's arms, trying to warm him up where he was shaking. “I could not care less about Batman right now. I’m worried about you. You don’t need to apologize. I will take care of everything. You are not a bargaining chip. You are my son. ” Bruce paused. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll even promise I won’t kill your dad. But, Tim,” Bruce looked into his eyes, “What can I do to help you? What do you need?”
The two of them looked at each other for a long, long moment before Tim spoke.
“Um. Don’t leave me?” Tim’s voice cracked. “I mean...my feet hurt. It hurts to walk. So I can’t follow you right now. So, please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone, and I feel, um. Safer. When you’re around. I’ve—” Tim choked a little, “I’ve had a bad day.”
Bruce looked at his kid and nodded to himself. He bundled Tim more securely into his robe and scooped him up into his arms, careful of both their injuries. “Ten-four, Robin.” He said. “Not leaving you. I’ll bring you with me.”
Tim burst into tears.
Meanwhile, locked in a cell on the Watchtower, Jack Drake was bloody and fuming.
The computer beeped. "Visitor for Drake, Jack. Authorized." A simulated voice announced.
A woman entered, looking professional and sharp. She held out her hand to shake. Her grip hurt a little.
"Mr. Drake, I am an investigative journalist looking into the unlawful incarceration of an American citizen by the Justice League. I've successfully negotiated your release. And I want to get your statement as to what, exactly, is going on."
This would show Bruce Wayne and that disrespectful brat: Jack Drake was an important man. You can't just make important men disappear. Jack might even be able to take down the Justice League with him. It would serve them right, holding upstanding American citizens captive with no charges.
He'd have his son back by next week.
"You'll get the word out there? About the, ahem, corruption inside the Justice League? And how I came to be here?"
"And anything else you have to tell me, Mr. Drake. I want to know everything."
Jack rubbed his palms together. "You have no idea what you've stumbled upon, lady."
The woman smiled like a shark. "I can't imagine. By tomorrow, Mr. Drake, the whole world will know your story."
Jack Drake smiled back. His cell pinged and she held the door open for him as he stepped out.
"Ah, thank you, Miss...?"
"Lane." She pulled a small audio recorder from her pocket and switched it on. She gave him that shark-smile again, the one with too many teeth. "Lois Lane. I'm with the Daily Planet."
Excerpt from:
Millionaire Brutalizes 13-year-old Son, Claims Boy is “Batman in Disguise”
by LOIS LANE on NOVEMBER 4th, 20XX
“….When questioned how a thirteen year old had performed such a role when there have been recorded “Bat” sightings for over a decade and a half, Mr. Drake had this to say: “He’s got a supply of them. One after the other.” When pressed as to the identity of this he, Drake only identified this mysterious individual as yet another Batman.
Mr. Drake’s list of confirmed “Batmen” include, but is purportedly not limited to: one of his most prominent business competitors, a retired stage actor, a paraplegic woman, a child who died five years ago, and several of his neighbors.
After brutalizing his son, Drake also admitted to opening fire on his unsuspecting neighbors, injuring one.
A word from Detective Harvey Bullock on this inexplicable case: "The only connecting line here is proximity. Best I figure, this nutcase started walking from his house and accused every person he came across of being Batman." The detective promised to give updates as the case progresses.
Family friend Selina Kyle had this to say: "If you ask me, Jack always went hard on the drink, but came down harder on that poor boy of his. A thirteen year old vigilante? Absolutely ridiculous." Kyle later confided, "Honestly, I don't think Batman is real. I think the whole mess is a publicity stunt from the tourism board, and now an innocent child has been hurt because of it. You really have to be careful what you put out there. You can never predict what the consequences will be."
Jack Drake has been taken into custody and his trial is tentatively set for early December."