Chapter Text
The table warmed under his blood. It hadn't taken long, it usually didn't. He always found it easier to focus when it was still cold, it kept him aware.
Or maybe it was just that the cold mean't the torture has been short.
The metal of the pliers never seemed to warm no matter how many times they plunged into his skin, the constant irregular squelching made it hard to focus on anything other than a feather being torn from his flesh.
Luckily Tim has had a lot of practise shutting his mind off.
It's a delicate balance. Needing to stay focused enough to stay sane, but not aware enough to feel the worst of it. The chains the Caretaker had brought three years ago, after his first 'outburst', have rusted in places from the blood. A quick tug helped to keep him grounded when he was starting to slip to far into the nightmares.
Though the tugging seemed not to be working as well today. Maybe he was getting better with the pain, that wasn't good, he needed to stay concious. They'd just started and the Caretaker liked to take her time. He still had most of his feathers to go, and all the scales on his horns.
Tim didn't like going over his memories, it brought up to many of his failures, but it kept him aware.
When did he first realise he was different? When he saw his parents didn't have the same horns he did? How the kids in shows had smooth skin on their back?
Whenever it was, the realisation had certainly cemented when he had heard the crack of the Grayson's spines.
They were meant to fly, birds aren't meant to fall. He's tired.
His wings had been small enough to hide in his shirts, his horns able to be covered by a beanie. A celebration for turning 4. He'd almost panicked when Richard Grayson hugged him and brushed against the binded limbs, barely holding it in. It had felt... nice to be hugged. Dick promised to do a flip for him. No one had ever promised Tim anything. Dick was the first.
And the last.
He wondered if the fall was what gave his parents the idea to clip his wings. The feeling of his bones protruding bloody and bent was one he would never forget. He's still not sure who was more disappointed when they grew back along with the filed horns. His parents or himself.
The drake family said goodbye to their three story brownstone, that they had set on fire, and moved into a beautiful luxurious manor. Outfitted with a sturdy basement able to hide tiny birds, and to hold them as well, it was perfect.
At first his basement had all sorts of books and even a TV. The Caretaker, an always smiling middle aged woman, would bring Tim bland foods while his parents were away, or did she come later? He's started to forget some of the finer details.
That TV taught him who Robin was, he finally got to see the flip. Not in the way he was promised but he had become used to disappointments by then. Radio and gossip magazines taught him who the second robin was, or is? Was Jason still robin? He wondered not for the first time. He had lost the TV after his first major outburst.
His wings had grown quite strong and love tends to drain after not seeing your parents for a while. Would he be in his current predicament if he stayed calm? Waited until he was stronger. By the time he was... 12? Maybe? He only had his books, luckily he could request what he wanted. He spent a lot of time reading into history and different theories.
Its not like he could learn in a classroom.
Jason and Richard had a good use to batman. They can fight, all Tim could apparently do was grow feathers and scales for who knows what.
The caretaker's humming a low tune under her breath, she always enjoys this. She seemed to enjoy changing her rhythm and strength to make him flinch, taking her time to make him suffer. Maybe she didn't get paid enough, maybe she was just a sadist.
His wings had become to large for the table he's layed on, so the caretaker had put hooks into the wall and simply stabbed the meat of his flesh into them when needed. The muscles in his back ached from being stretched. He'd long since given up on getting used to it, the time between harvests was just slightly to long for his body to get used to it, and he didn't have nearly enough protean in his food to actually develop any muscle.
Not for the first time, and probably not for the last time, he wondered if Batman and Robin would come save him. The caretaker told him Robin was dead though, birds aren't meant to die.
He had been so confused when his parents told him he finally had a use. It had been around the time he only had his books left. When the caretakers job had changed from watching over him to ripping apart his body.
It would be three years of this now, he hopes he dies of blood loss. He may want to stay sane but that was quite different from wanting to live. When he goes, it's going to be as Tim.
He almost missed it, the ever light creaking outside the door. Hollow horns caught more than the caretakers ears. She was to preoccupied slowly turning the pliers.
There was someone in the house, not the drakes. This person was to light footed, to sure. Will they save him? Or hurt him?
Will they even notice him?
Just as the spiral started the door split into a million pieces. An armored foot was put though it, the caretaker screamed retreating to the corner of the small room. A red helmeted figure walked through the door and slowly took in the room.
Their helment was brighter than the colour of blood but close. They're large, to large to have been making such light steps surely, except Tim couldnt see anyone else there behind them. They seem to stocky to be a woman, the armor padded to much for him to be sure. A leather jacket and cargo pants completed by black body armor. Could they be working with Batman and Robin?
Only if Batman had suddenly become a fan of guns over the past three years. The figure was a walking armory.
Tim locked eyes with the white lenses of the helmet. They leaned back ever so slightly and tilted their head, then took in Tim's bloody appearance.
Their gaze swept over to the now whimpering Caretaker, Tim had only ever seen her assured and smiling. He supposed there was never anything to scare her before.
She's begging, pleading on her hands and knees. A loud bang pierces the air and suddenly there's nothing but ringing. The caretakers body fell to the floor with a crack. Tim stared at her body. He should feel sad at her death right? That's what people were meant to do.
The masked figure stepped forward, steps much louder now, they raised their hands. Were they talking?
They started to unlatch the chains. What was going to happen to him now? This could be his only chance.
The masked figure wasn't just covered in guns but knives as well, a small one sat inside the leather jacket. He's always been fast.
He swiped it, aimed towards his neck and plunged. It would finally be over, he couldn't feel his hands yet he was sure of the power he put in. His face was aching from the curve his mouth has taken on.
What would his parents think when they found his body? He hopes they're angry, he always liked making them angry.
Then just as suddenly as the door burst open into his life, it all turned dark.
Jason's a lot of things, a vigilante, a struggling crime lord, an ex bat, a lover of a good book and right now. Incredibly annoyed.
It's been barley 4 months since he began his take over of the smaller gangs in Gotham. Two months since he tracked down the new little bird to Titans towers and taught her what protections being Robin gets you from the freaks in Gotham.
Two months since Bruce decided he was worth less than that crazed clown and slit his throat, leaving him to die in another warehouse.
The Lazarus pit was a bitch an a half but at least it gave him faster healing than most. Maybe he could've spent his first month really consolidating his hold over his territory doing something fun, shooting the bats or fucking over Sionis.
Unfortunately the universe hates him.
His territory was dissolving faster than it could grow, bats sniping away at the edges. Well, he couldn't say he was to broken up about it. The whole crime lord stick was always meant to be just a means to an end, he didn't really have much plans for it after the clowns death. Had the clown actually died that is.
Now Wings is running rampant through what's left of his territory, already been responsible for a hundred overdoes in the last month. The bats seemed to stay far away from the alley when they weren't fucking over his lieutenants leaving the mess to him alone.
He didn't have much notes on the new drug, what he did know was that Wings is incredibly addictive. Making you feel invincible, some of the people who hadn't overdosed still died from doing crazy stunts like jumping off buildings, and its cheap enough that people keep coming back for more.
All his digging into the supply had turned up nothing, strange transactions and offshore accounts that either lead nowhere or straight back into the banks themselves. Eventually he had given up on that route and sent a sample of it to Talia to see if the league could find anything.
Fucking magic
Jason hates magic, the Lazarus pit was magic and look where that put him. Now he's following some dumb compass Talia sent him through Gotham, one that's sending him annoyingly close to Bristol.
He didn't need a sanctimonious visit from a pissed Bruce, and the new bird had made it very clear what she thought of him. Only Nightwing hadn't shown himself to the newly minted Red Hood yet, pretty par for the course. Even when Jason had been Robin Dick would rather chew of his own arm than talk with Bruce, and according to Talia's data dear old big brother had become a lot more pathetic in the last couple years.
At least someone was affected by his death. Maybe he should send Dick a gift basket.
It didn't matter, Dick's in Bludhaven right now while Jason's riding through the rain getting closer and closer to Wayne Manor. If this was some sort of fucked up joke from Talia he's gonna be pissed.
The compass's leading him closer and closer to the manor, could something in the Batcave be messing with the tracking?
Na. magic was a form of energy sure but that didn't mean it would always act the same. He would just have to be careful getting close, not wanting to activate any sensors that would tip of the crotchety old bat.
Just as he expected the compass to start turning rapidly to face the manor it stayed straight on down the road. He continued past the unlit manor, everyone should be on patrol by now.
A feeling of disappointment settled in his gut. Jason hurried on before he could examine it.
Drake Manor appeared over the rolling hills.
The Drakes may be the only family in Gotham as well known as the Wayne's, not because of their company. Jason thought about the tragic Drake heir, how a couple thugs broke into the Drakes brownstone, stole some artefacts they had collected and set the place on fire.
The Drakes and the babysitter watching Timothy got out, except the babysitter swears the Drakes were watching Timothy as he made dinner while the Drakes swore that their son was with the babysitter.
Apparently being rich doesn't save you from Gotham's poor bureaucracy.
The firefighters arrived too late and all that was found of little Timothy Drake was a burned shrivelled body, too deformed to even get any I.D on it.
Catherine and Willis had clutched Jason close that night, it was the first time in a while they had all been at home and slept in the same bed, his dad would have to go back to working late the next day but mum had insisted he stay for the night.
Stepping off his bike he broke into the surprisingly robust security system. The trade is lucrative and he can't imagine how much the Drakes are getting from magic drugs.
They'd always creep Jason out at Gala's. It had been a few before he had met them, thank God. Jason wasn't sure how well he'd deal with them on his first time.
People had talked about the Drakes in the way all socialites do, thinly veiled gossip hidden behind false sympathy. Though it had been the Drakes themselves that disturbed him most.
In the alley you either survived by sticking close or backstabbing each other, he'd seen families and friends acting grief stricken as if they didn't jump at the chance to gain a leg up. Keep only one spot open on the ladder and you've got an entire group fighting for it. Easy way to prevent a group from staying together.
It works more often than he'd like.
The Drakes never mourned their son. They were good actors sure, better than most. But Jason could tell. Bruce would always shake him off when Jason tried to bring it up, Bruce had been to the funeral and looked into it, nothing suspicious. Jason doubted that.
Especially considering the similar time frame between Dicks adoption and Timothy's death, it's not crazy to think Bruce was a little distracted at the time.
The pristine artefacts of Drake Manor were all placed behind ornate glass cases. He bet numerous were fakes replaced by Selina, she always likes to hit a few Bristol homes here and their. Maybe he should visit, she's probably be pissed he hasn't already.
The house was empty. Every sound echoed off the walls, silent and cavernous. It matched with how often the Drakes were in some other country ignoring their company. The manor's a museum more than a home. Alfred would tut at the sight.
Luckily the Drakes were in the Maldives on a less than legal excursion. He should pay them a visit soon.
The compass become essentially useless now, spinning in circles, even if Talia hadn't warned him it wouldn't work to show verticality it was pretty obvious what was happening.
Old manors like these were always fitted with an attic and a basement, and creepy drug shit never happens in the attic.
Pulling up some schematics on Drake Manor, that were again surprisingly annoying to gain access to, he found the basement entrance.
Okay basement may be to generous a term.
The entire place has been fitted with concrete and rebar, a collection of tinned food in the corner. A rack of bloody tools.
The smell of blood got through his helmet filters.
He kept his steps light as he made his way through the cramped spaces until he found a door that looked more like a prison gate than it had any right to.
Shit, this was not gonna go well, the centre of the door had a ton of hairline fractures of different ages, the newer ones getting larger and larger.
He heard someone, a woman maybe?, humming on the other side of the door, joined by an unrhythmic squelching.
That's flesh.
Jason almost immediately kicked down the door, a high pitched wail careened from the corner of the room, a women's backing away covered in blood and holding a pair of pliers. Not her blood. Behind her was a bucket of bloodied feathers.
In the back of the room lay a kid, maybe 12 or 13, with black hair and pale skin, with horns protruding from his head. A large wing brutally pinned to a hook on the wall, bloodied and battered. The matching one lay on the ground below the sickly looking black and red table the kid laid on.
They looked at Jason's mask, there was very little behind those grey eyes.
Familiar grey eyes.
Something was nagging at the back of his brain as he tried those eyes, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why they seemed so familiar.
The woman was begging for mercy now, saying she had been forced. Jason has never been much for emotional regulation even before his death, and shockingly the world's worst spa treatment did not help in that regard. Even then he couldn't say he regretted shooting the woman between the eyes.
The kid craned his neck to look at her, resounding in a thick crack. There was a faint hint of satisfaction at the sight, he's not sure the kid's aware enough to realise this was real.
Jason stepped forward slowly, heavier steps now. With those horns and with how small the room was he doubted the kid could hear much but ringing. He kept every movement slow and telegraphed as he began to unlatch the chains around the kid, they had long rusted from his blood.
He'd been here much longer than the months Wings has been circulating.
Jason kept a steady stream of words out of his mouth. It didn't matter, the kid was barley there.
All at once some clarity returned to the kids eyes and he dove for something in Jason's jacket. Shit the kid was faster than he'd expected.
In less than a second the little bird was plunging a knife towards his own throat. Jason's hands worked before his brain as he grabs the kids hands and twists. They slumped to the ground, Jason barely caught them. Those wings are heavy.
Oh fuck he was unconscious now. Jason's had about 150 pounds of meta kid on his hands, half that being the wings, completely unconscious and bleeding. Okay okay this is fine. He couldn't take this kid to a shelter, and there was no way he was letting Bruce know about a traumatised possible parentless black haired boy.
he had enough child soldiers, he certainly didn't need a flying one.
If he did his job right this kid would never touch a weapon in his life.
He picked the baby bird up bridal style and made his way out the house, he'd have to track down the drakes soon. For now that could wait, they wouldn't be able to make anymore drugs without the kid, if he's lucky they'll come to him.
He's rarely that lucky.
The rain was heavier now, his bike was drenched, he put his jacket on top of the kid and placed him on the back of the cycle, securing his limbs either to it, or to Jason himself.
He stepped on the gas and headed to one of his closer safe houses, right past the brightly lit Wayne Manor.