It’s Wednesday, so Tim can sleep in until five a.m. He shouldn’t feel this foggy after a solid 7 hours, but he doesn’t remember a restless night. Maybe his parents -
No, that’s not right, is it?
Yes. Of course, they’re in Peru, and Mrs. Mac, the housekeeper, is on vacation. Ergo, Tim’s naturally in a coffee shop right off the campus of a big Div I university at 6:30, buying a six pack of sous vide egg bites, a a scone, and a redeye. A little post-cardio breakfast - and there is no ideal universe in which he's making his own breakfast. He doesn't even flinch at the bill. Doesn't stiff the tip jar, at least, and the barista seems to actually like him.
"See you tomorrow at for 6 at 6!"
"Hey, the world's full of infinite possibilies, Heather! I could go to the all night diner down the street and load up on pasta and chicken!"
"Uh-huh. And I could not have a line. Later Tim!"
There's a chance that he's not as much of an asshole as the Div I varsity jacket with matching t-shirt and slim-cut sweats implies. Although anyone who gets the impression that the only reason his fit doesn't have a hat is because it would mess up his hair? Would be right.
Day One, Lunch
Tim's day does not have a lot of spare time. He has a plan. For today, for the next year, the next 3 years and the next 5.
Today, he's going get in his morning workout (✔), hit all 3 morning classes (✔), afternoon practice, library, evening practice, while simultaneously managing to eat enough to do it. For next year? Making the Olympic gymnastic team as a substitute at 20. Next 3? Degree in comp sci. It's amazing what you can do with next-to-no personal life. Next 5? Main squad in 2028.
So that means scarfing down a lunch in 30 minutes at his table, while wantonly highlighting a textbook that he's not worried about selling while the class is still fresh in his mind. He collects his tray from the small queue that all the student athletes use, and lunch is a masterpiece of 70/30 proteins to carbs, with a protein shake to wash it down and a full liter of water to wash that down.
Company at lunch is welcome, but won't be sought out. It's a crowded cafeteria at noon. Highly unlikely he'll get to keep that big table to himself.
First night, 9:33 P.M. to ??? - Closed to Kon
So the day goes. “Normal” inasmuch that this much privilege can be, until that evening.
He’s one of the last to leave the gymnasium, and the walk across campus is well lit, but relatively empty. Just not a lot of reason to be out on a cold Wednesday night in February, and the parking garage is nearly empty. The evening classes finish at 9, and the rest of the team are in the dorms.
Tim doesn't think much of it. He makes the same trip across campus every night, and he grew up here. Walk with a purpose, don't have visible electronics, and coast on the fact that he's male. The odds of something happening on campus are extraordinarily low.
The odds of, say, the side door of the black van parked 2 spots over from the driver side of Tim's sedan opening like a gullwing door with a swish of hydraulics, revealing a gleaming metallic interior, full of glowing blue lights and increasingly empty of goons in forest green jumpsuits with purple hexagons stitched over the left breast? Why, they're astronomic, he would have insisted.
If he hadn't seen it reflected in the tinted glass of his door window, he definitely would have insisted it was so remote as to be impossible. Now, he's insisting "NO!" and "Gerroff me!" as he's being restrained and rushed backwards into the van by a trio of attackers focused on speed rather than grace. It is less than ten seconds before the van door is closing behind them.
There's someone else in the van, different uniform. They crouch down over the dogpile of bodies keeping Tim tightly restrained. A needle jabs his neck, and the world slides out of focus.
---
It's no time, before he lurches back up. He can't remember what he's struggling against but there's something - something. His brain takes a panicked few minutes to recognize he's struggling against the aftereffects of sedation, flitting in and out of consciousness until Tim's finally able to cling to wakefulness. Cold. Crappy bunk. Toilet. Toilet?? And the far wall is bars. He's in ... jail?
"Hello?" Scuffling noises from somewhere in the dark behind the bars. "I have a student deferment from military service, if that's what this is about."
Tim's trying to stay calm, because this is only a misunderstanding. If he's friendly and polite, this will be handled quickly. He approaches the bars, but doesn't touch them. In the dim hall light, he can just make out the bars of another dark cell across the way. "If I may make a phone call, this - "
Shhhhkreeeeee. It's like a scream and a hiss, reverberating off the cinderblock and tight angles of the cell. A twisted, strangle of a sound that's so high-pitched it hurts. A bipedal thing slams into the bars of the other cell, huge and dry looking, with skin that's an ashy orange and mouth that's far, far too wide and open, and Tim throws himself backwards because instinct is screaming to get away from that creature. His own cry of surprise is completely drowned out.
A door opens and slams, somewhere he can't see. He can hear what the door looks like though, heavy and metal. Booted footsteps approach until a man with military carriage and a forest green jumpsuit is between the two cells. The man slams a baton against the bars of the other cell with a clang and the crackle of a tazer. "Shut up, missy. I'm not putting up with it tonight."
The creature retreats, hissing quietly, and the man approaches Tim's cell. "Guess Sleeping Beauty over here woke up and pissed you off, huh girl?"
That... that's not a cop. Not a soldier, either, even though he acts like it, but Tim doesn't know what else to plead for. "Please, if I can just call my parents -"
They'll... what? Let his call go straight to voicemail? Pay whatever ransom is going to be demanded? Fight that thing in the other cell with their stock portfolio?
"Put these on." A set of scrubs is unceremoniously shoved through the bars.
"Sir, I - "
"I'm not going to say it again, boy. When I come back, if those are on and your shit's out here in the hall, then we'll see about arranging a little 'chat' for you." The man chuckles and starts down the hall. At the last second, the creature lunges again, this time extending a short arm with terrible curved claws through the bars. A claw ghosts over the man's sleeve, and it shhhkreees in frustration.
The man grins - Tim can see the smile in profile - and puts a hard mask over his face before he pulls out a phone and taps it. There's a strong smell of rotten eggs, and the room starts to spin. The voice is muffled. "Guess you'll have to put them on in the morning. Thank your friend over there."
Tim realizes he should have sat down when he collapses, and his head hits the concrete floor.
Note
[ It will be 48 hours before Tim's disappearance is reported to police by his coaches after the second day of missed practices, so any news story wouldn't happen until Day 4. I might do a follow-up toplevel once I get a sense of where this is going. ]
Tim Drake | DC Comics | OTA [AU-ified]
It’s Wednesday, so Tim can sleep in until five a.m. He shouldn’t feel this foggy after a solid 7 hours, but he doesn’t remember a restless night. Maybe his parents -
No, that’s not right, is it?
Yes. Of course, they’re in Peru, and Mrs. Mac, the housekeeper, is on vacation. Ergo, Tim’s naturally in a coffee shop right off the campus of a big Div I university at 6:30, buying a six pack of sous vide egg bites, a a scone, and a redeye. A little post-cardio breakfast - and there is no ideal universe in which he's making his own breakfast. He doesn't even flinch at the bill. Doesn't stiff the tip jar, at least, and the barista seems to actually like him.
"See you tomorrow at for 6 at 6!"
"Hey, the world's full of infinite possibilies, Heather! I could go to the all night diner down the street and load up on pasta and chicken!"
"Uh-huh. And I could not have a line. Later Tim!"
There's a chance that he's not as much of an asshole as the Div I varsity jacket with matching t-shirt and slim-cut sweats implies. Although anyone who gets the impression that the only reason his fit doesn't have a hat is because it would mess up his hair? Would be right.
Day One, Lunch
Tim's day does not have a lot of spare time. He has a plan. For today, for the next year, the next 3 years and the next 5.
Today, he's going get in his morning workout (✔), hit all 3 morning classes (✔), afternoon practice, library, evening practice, while simultaneously managing to eat enough to do it. For next year? Making the Olympic gymnastic team as a substitute at 20. Next 3? Degree in comp sci. It's amazing what you can do with next-to-no personal life. Next 5? Main squad in 2028.
So that means scarfing down a lunch in 30 minutes at his table, while wantonly highlighting a textbook that he's not worried about selling while the class is still fresh in his mind. He collects his tray from the small queue that all the student athletes use, and lunch is a masterpiece of 70/30 proteins to carbs, with a protein shake to wash it down and a full liter of water to wash that down.
Company at lunch is welcome, but won't be sought out. It's a crowded cafeteria at noon. Highly unlikely he'll get to keep that big table to himself.
First night, 9:33 P.M. to ??? - Closed to Kon
So the day goes. “Normal” inasmuch that this much privilege can be, until that evening.
He’s one of the last to leave the gymnasium, and the walk across campus is well lit, but relatively empty. Just not a lot of reason to be out on a cold Wednesday night in February, and the parking garage is nearly empty. The evening classes finish at 9, and the rest of the team are in the dorms.
Tim doesn't think much of it. He makes the same trip across campus every night, and he grew up here. Walk with a purpose, don't have visible electronics, and coast on the fact that he's male. The odds of something happening on campus are extraordinarily low.
The odds of, say, the side door of the black van parked 2 spots over from the driver side of Tim's sedan opening like a gullwing door with a swish of hydraulics, revealing a gleaming metallic interior, full of glowing blue lights and increasingly empty of goons in forest green jumpsuits with purple hexagons stitched over the left breast? Why, they're astronomic, he would have insisted.
If he hadn't seen it reflected in the tinted glass of his door window, he definitely would have insisted it was so remote as to be impossible. Now, he's insisting "NO!" and "Gerroff me!" as he's being restrained and rushed backwards into the van by a trio of attackers focused on speed rather than grace. It is less than ten seconds before the van door is closing behind them.
There's someone else in the van, different uniform. They crouch down over the dogpile of bodies keeping Tim tightly restrained. A needle jabs his neck, and the world slides out of focus.
---
It's no time, before he lurches back up. He can't remember what he's struggling against but there's something - something. His brain takes a panicked few minutes to recognize he's struggling against the aftereffects of sedation, flitting in and out of consciousness until Tim's finally able to cling to wakefulness. Cold. Crappy bunk. Toilet. Toilet?? And the far wall is bars. He's in ... jail?
"Hello?" Scuffling noises from somewhere in the dark behind the bars. "I have a student deferment from military service, if that's what this is about."
Tim's trying to stay calm, because this is only a misunderstanding. If he's friendly and polite, this will be handled quickly. He approaches the bars, but doesn't touch them. In the dim hall light, he can just make out the bars of another dark cell across the way. "If I may make a phone call, this - "
Shhhhkreeeeee. It's like a scream and a hiss, reverberating off the cinderblock and tight angles of the cell. A twisted, strangle of a sound that's so high-pitched it hurts. A bipedal thing slams into the bars of the other cell, huge and dry looking, with skin that's an ashy orange and mouth that's far, far too wide and open, and Tim throws himself backwards because instinct is screaming to get away from that creature. His own cry of surprise is completely drowned out.
A door opens and slams, somewhere he can't see. He can hear what the door looks like though, heavy and metal. Booted footsteps approach until a man with military carriage and a forest green jumpsuit is between the two cells. The man slams a baton against the bars of the other cell with a clang and the crackle of a tazer. "Shut up, missy. I'm not putting up with it tonight."
The creature retreats, hissing quietly, and the man approaches Tim's cell. "Guess Sleeping Beauty over here woke up and pissed you off, huh girl?"
That... that's not a cop. Not a soldier, either, even though he acts like it, but Tim doesn't know what else to plead for. "Please, if I can just call my parents -"
They'll... what? Let his call go straight to voicemail? Pay whatever ransom is going to be demanded? Fight that thing in the other cell with their stock portfolio?
"Put these on." A set of scrubs is unceremoniously shoved through the bars.
"Sir, I - "
"I'm not going to say it again, boy. When I come back, if those are on and your shit's out here in the hall, then we'll see about arranging a little 'chat' for you." The man chuckles and starts down the hall. At the last second, the creature lunges again, this time extending a short arm with terrible curved claws through the bars. A claw ghosts over the man's sleeve, and it shhhkreees in frustration.
The man grins - Tim can see the smile in profile - and puts a hard mask over his face before he pulls out a phone and taps it. There's a strong smell of rotten eggs, and the room starts to spin. The voice is muffled. "Guess you'll have to put them on in the morning. Thank your friend over there."
Tim realizes he should have sat down when he collapses, and his head hits the concrete floor.
Note
[ It will be 48 hours before Tim's disappearance is reported to police by his coaches after the second day of missed practices, so any news story wouldn't happen until Day 4. I might do a follow-up toplevel once I get a sense of where this is going. ]