Chapter Text
My name is Tim Drake. You might be wondering how I got here.
It’s a long story… where do I begin? I guess everything started when Jason Todd, infamous perpetuator of the nefarious, coerced me into joining him on an insane mission, a mission crazy to the highest degree—
“Could you stop making passive-aggressive journal entries, please? We’re about to land.”
Tim snapped the notebook shut, stuffing his pen into a pocket— one of many hidden in the folds of his baggy pants; all expanded to hold enough space to fit an entire briefcase— the perks of magic. For Tim Drake wasn’t any normal 13 year old, he was a wizard. And more than that; he was also Robin, the crime-fighting vigilante that kicked bad guy butt at Batman’s side.
Except it wasn’t Batman leading Tim on an action-packed patrol this time. It was former Robin Jason Todd. More commonly known these days by his new alias, Red Hood.
“Some day my passive-aggressive journal entries might be the last remnants of humanity the aliens find,” he pointed out to his exasperated friend. “Would you really want to pass up a chance to represent the human race to the aliens, huh?”
“I’ve met them, and they’re not all that, honest. Now, c’mon.”
No sense of humor, Tim lamented, simultaneously wondering how much of Jason’s statement to take at face value— because meeting aliens and being able to label them as ‘not all that’ would not normally be something randomly dropped in a regular conversation… but that was billionaire superheroes for you. Sometimes they’d say “price elasticity of demand” and sometimes they’d say “aliens are overhyped” and both times you’d have no idea what they were on about.
All right, that wasn’t quite accurate. First, because being something of a rich kid himself, Tim did know some (many) things about economics and second, Jason wasn’t a billionaire, just a kid randomly adopted by a billionaire after trying to rob them, and there was a difference, Jason insisted. Either way, point was: aliens, when could Tim meet them?
Not any time soon, that much was clear, because next up on the agenda was taking down a human trafficking ring against Batman’s express orders. Woohoo, Tim loved getting in trouble.
#
How it really started: barely had Tim arrived at Wayne Manor, already he was being whisked into Jason’s room. “Here’s the plan,” his friend told him, handing him a stack of papers. “We’re going to Russia.”
Tim leafed through the papers while Jason explained. A friend of his, a prostitute working the Bowery, had gotten him in contact with a woman recently smuggled into Gotham by ship. Coincidentally, the same ship Jason had later identified as a big cocaine shipment to the Black Mask. The woman had been searching for a job back in Russia, and was lured in by false promises of one, before the man deceiving her had gotten her to the shipyard, destroyed all her papers and documentation and forced her on the boat. She’d been in Gotham for about two weeks, coerced by the Black Mask into working the streets alongside Jason’s friend.
Jason had tracked the smuggler’s route and identified the man who’d lured Nada to the pick-up point. He was part of a larger organization the Bats had, up that point, been unaware of. But they had direct ties to the Black Mask, and that made them Gotham, and therefore, Bat business. So Jason argued to Batman. Who was inclined to agree, just not in the point that Jason involve himself in the investigation.
There’d been arguments, screaming matches, silent treatment, guilt tripping, culminating finally with Jason staging a jail-break with Tim in tow. Considering the outcome of the last time he’d done that, Tim wasn’t so thoughtless so as not to leave a note. He didn’t really trust it to keep Batman off their tails and not in Panic-Mode™, as he told Jason, followed by a half-hearted attempt to get him to reconsider his whole bichi naneun solo approach. There were, after all, other ways to convince to Bruce to let them go to Russia without him— yes, there was probably no getting around 24/7 monitoring via trackers for as long as they were out of the country, but at least the Bat wouldn’t swoop down in the middle of their mission in a flurry of overprotectiveness and embarrass them in front of the villains. Blackmail goes a long way, Jason.
Sadly, the former Robin wasn’t to be swayed. Which brought them to a plane to Russia, with bullet-proof suits in their carry-ons.
Tim really hoped Bruce didn’t have a heart-attack.
#
They’d been in Kaliningrad for about three days. Enough time for Tim and Jason to break into their target’s apartment and squeeze information out of him like a lemon. Now Tim was dressed in clothes that would’ve normally been too large for him, had he not been Polyjuice’d, and making his way through a narrow cobblestone alley, shoved between two looming buildings. There was a door in the wall, at an angle that made it impossible to see the people entering and exiting from outside of the alley. The password was “Money is coined liberty” (Dostoevski)— ironic, considering what kind of a meeting Tim was sneaking into.
When he knocked against the door— the rhythm their target had shown them— a hatch in the dark metal slid aside to reveal a single baleful blue eye. It glared at Tim, seemingly recognised his face, and barked, “Password?”
Tim had had a tutor for Russian when he’d been younger. He was passably decent in the language, but either way, it would be best to say as little as possible— and hope the man he was impersonating wasn’t normally a chatterbox. He gave the password. The door swung open silently, at odds with its rundown, grimy appearance from the outside. Tim entered, suppressing a flinch as a lock clicked behind him audibly.
“He’s there already,” the man said gruffly, “and pissed as shit that you’re late.”
“Business,” Tim replied curtly. The man gave him another unsubtle one-over. Tim was in the body of Boris Sokolov, the man who had lured Nada to the docks. He was one of the higher ranked ground operatives of the organization, answering directly to the regional head-man, Morozov. Sokolov handled business in the Leningradsky city district. Once a month, he and the operatives responsible for the remaining two districts met up with Morozov to report. A perfect opportunity to get a tracker onto him and trace down wherever the operation’s HQ was. The only challenge was surviving this meeting without getting shot.
The man who’d been guarding the door patted him down, then motioned him to pass. The hallway was dark, probably a stylistic choice. The floor was bare, but deeper into the passage, Tim found his shoes cushioned by thick carpet. A couple of candles illuminated another door, this one made of shiny wood.
Listen, Jason had told him, any criminal that uses a Dostoevski quote as a passcode is gonna be a pretentious fuck. We have the great disadvantage of knowing next to nothing about the way these guys interact. If you don’t want your cover blown, you’re going to have to do a lot of thinking on the fly. Figure out how the rest of the people are treating the boss-man and adapt. I can tell you now already that it’s going to be a lot of posturing and ‘He who overcomes pain and fear will become God’— criminals have a type, and these are the lit major type.
I wouldn’t be giving you this part of the plan, if I could, he added after a beat. Wannabe lit nerds or not, they’ll still shoot you. But Jason didn’t speak any Russian, and Tim sadly, didn’t have a convenient magical answer for that one, so the role fell to him. Eitherway, if you think they’re onto you; rafters, windows, smoke-bombs, and get the fuck out. I’ll blow the walls down if it comes down to that.
There was another man standing guard at the door. Tim turned his wrist upward to expose the tattoo of a pentagram on it. It was still a disturbing feeling to look down at himself and see a foreign body— it had taken him an hour of just walking back and forth in the hotel room to stop tripping over his too long limbs. Not to mention, the Polyjuice tasted awful. But no disguise was so effective, and with a glance at the veiny, dishwater-coloured skin with the blue tattoo, the man stepped aside. Tim pushed the door open.
“Borya!” A booming voice greeted.
Tim had to blink against the sudden onslaught of light. The room he’d stepped into was flooded with it. At a large oak table, four other people were seated. Three regarded him with disdainful expressions. The fourth, who’d been seated at the head of the table, was wearing a beaming smile. Tim was frozen in indecision for a moment, unsure what to do. There was another empty chair on the smiling man’s other side. He’d be sitting directly across from the other three, who he assumed were his fellow district heads. Was it a result of hierarchy or of animosity, he wondered. Certainly they didn’t seem all that happy to see him. But there was still the man who’d greeted him— Morozov, the boss, if the description Sokolov had given them was to be trusted. How to respond, how to respond…
“Boss,” Tim said, sending what was hopefully a casual smile the man’s way. “Sorry for the delay.”
“I sure hope you are, friend,” Morozov replied, still with that too bright smile.
“I got held up,” Tim said.
“Of course, of course,” Morozov said with a dismissive hand wave. “Business is the most important. I am expecting a good report from you then.” He winked. Tim noticed for the first time how cold his eyes were. “Whatever priorities held you up must be worth it if they make you late to a meeting with me.”
Tim’s head was blank. He had no idea what to respond. Maybe it was the men with the guns lining the corners of the rooms. The way the people across from him glared. How Morozov’s smile was too broad and showed too many teeth, and the fact that Tim wasn’t in Hogwarts, or in Gotham, or in a place where he even knew any of the players at all. Tim could usually bullshit himself out of anything, but this wasn’t any thing he’d ever encountered before. This was a room, underground, in Kaliningrad, surrounded by people who could blow his head off his shoulders within seconds, and he was completely out of his depth. When he tried to search for what to say, Tim’s brain flashed with a giant 404 Not Found.
“Well, let’s not stress him,” Morozov laughed. “Borya didn’t get enough sleep, did he? He’s acting very stupid. Well, the more stupid one is, the closer one is to reality. Right, Borya? You must know what you’re doing if it has you acting like a fool… I look forward to the explanation.”
The more stupid one is, the closer one is to reality. More Dostoevsky. That was like a bucket of ice water— as invigorating as it was jarring. Right. Wannabe lit nerds. That made them— well, if not less intimidating, at least not completely foreign. Regular old sharks instead of deep-sea never-before-seen sharks. Tim could deal with this. He had Jason on his side, after all. Jason knew what he was doing. And Tim was good enough at faking it to get by.
Across from him, the other district heads began their reports. There was a thin, reedy looking man with wire-framed glasses and the habit of continuously fidgeting with them. He’d look like some meek, unassuming professor, except for the empty way his gaze seemed to dissect everything it landed on. Then there was a pair— male and female; twins. Dressed completely in white, pale skin and eyes, hair just a few shades darker blond than the white of their suits. They managed their sector together. Tim watched the woman giving their report with fascination. There was something enrapturing about the way her pale eyes reflected the glint of the chandelier above her, turning honey gold. He almost expected her to peel off her face to reveal machinery beneath, so alien was her demeanor. On the other hand, she kind of reminded him of Daphne Greengrass, and her twin of Draco— at least the poker-faced elite-criminal Draco probably wished he was.
Then it was Tim’s turn. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he launched into report cobbled together from information he and Jason had gotten from Boris, along with the sort of details that had earned appreciative noises from Morozov when mentioned by the other district heads. That, paired with some good old bureaucratic bullshit, had him monologging for fifteen minutes straight.
“… and an increase of targets in the red light district, which could be supplemented by hiring more runners. Ultimately, business is running smooth as always,” he finished.
Silence. Morozov was stroking his chin with a thoughtful expression. “That still,” he said slowly, “doesn’t explain why you were late.” He leaned forward, no trace of a smile left. “Well, Borya? Talking so much, as if I don’t know how much you talk when you’re nervous. Seems to me you have something you’re not telling me.”
“A surprise,” Tim lied. He tapped his ear surreptitiously. Might need an extraction.
“You’re doing fine,” Jason replied over the comm. Alarmingly, he sounded distracted.
“I have something for you,” Tim continued, tapping more insistently. Jason, I’m pretty sure he’s on to me.
“Hold on for two minutes, okay? You got this.”
Jason—
“A surprise?” Morozov leaned back in his chair with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t like surprises.”
“I’m sure you’ll like this one.”
Morozov exchanged a look with the guards posted around the room. “You know very well how many people there are, just waiting for me to put a bullet in your skull and give them your job, right, Boris? Because I’m losing my patience.”
Morozov— from moroz: frost. A name that, as far as the real Boris could be persuaded to reveal, had its roots in his perpetual cheerfulness, at complete odds with the ruthless way he killed anyone who got in his way. The fact that he kept a merry facade was worse than had he made no attempt to hide how cold he really was— it gave the cruelty a mocking tone. Either way, Tim was very aware just how easily this man would blow his brains out.
“It’s outside,” he said, wiping sweaty palms against his pants. There was nothing he could do about the perspiration beading across his forehead, except curse the fact that Boris’s body had more pronounced tells than his own. “I, um, couldn’t bring it in. Morozov—”
The man’s palmed slammed into the table with a resounding crack. Tim repressed a flinch. The district heads watched on placidly, as inert as statues. “So many mistakes today, Boris,” he hissed. “Only my friends call me by my name.”
Boris had said he was on good enough terms with the big boss to use his first name. Either he’d been lying, or Morozov was signalling a loss in status. Neither was a good option. He needed to get out.
Jason, for fuck’s sake.
“Two minutes, Tim. Come on.”
Two minutes? You said that two minutes ago!
No reply. What the actual fuck, Jason, Tim thought. What happened to “I’ll be there every step of the way”, huh? Not to start quoting Tim’s current, by virtue of proximity to his gun barrel, biggest nemesis, Morozov, but he was about three seconds from demanding a reason for his friend’s inattentiveness — because Jason damn well better have a good one, if Tim was about to get shot.
“Boss,” Tim tried again, “I swear this is something you’d like. I’ve done good work, yeah? You can trust I have only the organisation’s best interests at heart. Don’t trust, don’t trust,” he amended quickly when Morozov’s eyebrows rose. Right. Mob bosses were probably allergic to that concept. “But be assured, at least,” he ended weakly.
Morozov hummed. “Very well, Boris. It’s been two years of good work. We’ll go to the roof, and you can show me what you’d like, and then we’ll decide if you continue working or not.”
Then there was a gun in his hand and he was gesturing for Tim to get up and lead the way. He loomed close enough that Tim could get a smell of the cologne he used— and close enough for Tim to slip the tracker into the lapels of his suit. That was at least that part of the plan checked off. Now all that was left was to fucking dip.
Tim had studied blueprints of the building, and while they were obviously not completely accurate, he could make an educated guess on how to get to the roof. The door was already unlocked. He stepped out onto the expanse of flat grey, eyes immediately mapping out the best way to run. The next buildings over were both taller, but there was a drain pipe on the side of one that he could catch himself on. Except— no, he kept forgetting: he wasn’t in his thirteen year old body anymore, he was in the body of a two hundred pound 47 year old. The pipe probably wouldn’t hold his weight.
Later Tim problems. Because right now, Morozov was gripping his elbow in a crushing grip, pressing the barrel into the side of his chest. “So,” he drawled, hot breath fanning across Tim’s face, “what is this magical surprise you have for me? I’m on the edge of my seat.”
Tim hesitated. What kind of surprise would a human trafficker like? Probably something nasty. “I thought you might like,” wagered Tim, “someone… for… personal use.”
Morozov’s eyebrow rose.
“I chose a… target… that I thought you might… enjoy,” Tim continued weakly.
“Well,” Morozov said flatly, “where is this someone then?”
“I have them at a secure location,” Tim answered. “Didn’t want to bring them to the meeting, it might’ve looked suspicious, I—”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Morozov cut him off. He raised the gun to Tim’s face. Tim went abruptly, completely still. “I do, in fact, enjoy a little excess of the trade for personal use, as you well know, Borya… but you’re acting so strange, my old friend, I really don’t want to suspect you, when you’ve worked so diligently the last two years… but I don’t tolerate traitors, and I don’t tolerate fools, so whichever one you might be…”
Okay, Tim thought, exhaling deeply, screw the plan, I’m knocking him out.
The safety clicked off. “I hope reality is looking to your preference.”
Tim gathered his magic for a Stupify.
A loud noise from the alley below caught their attention. “Hey, boss!” someone shouted up in broken Russian. “I got the target!”
Morozov and Tim stood silently, eyes meeting. “Do you know this person, Boris?” the man asked icily.
Tim could recognise Jason’s voice, he just had no idea what his predecessor was playing at. “Yes, sir,” he said shakily.
“And why is he kicking up a racket outside my safehouse?” Morozov hissed.
“He brought the target, sir,” Tim replied with a nervous attempt at a smile. (He’d mastered that one as preparation for convincing Dumbledore to let him visit his “sick and dying uncle” last year.) “I told you I’d left them away from the safehouse so as not to raise suspicion bringing them here— but I hired an assistant, you see, he’s a foreigner, he’s disposable, and—”
“Quiet,” Morozov snapped, peering over the side of the roof. Jason was standing below in an awful disguise— sunglasses and a beanie— and he was holding the arm of another man, who was swaying on his feet. Tim froze. What was Dick doing here?
Morozov was talking into a walkie-talkie, barking out curt orders. A second later, the suit-clad bodyguards were swarming out the hidden door and grabbing hold of Jason and Dick. They pulled them into the building roughly. “You are not allowed to hire anyone without my okay,” Morozov told him.
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir. But I only found this one a couple of days ago and he’s been absolutely perfect so far—”
“Silence, Boris. I’ve had enough of your blabbing.”
Tim fell silent.
Pounding footsteps could be heard from the stairwell. The door to the roof burst open, and Jason and Dick were shoved through, followed by the bodyguards. Morozov looked to the one in the front, and received a nod. He hummed thoughtfully as he approached them. “This is the foreigner you hired?” he said, looking Jason up and down.
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is my… surprise?”
Tim met Jason’s eyes. The older boy gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Morozov inspected Dick, who was doing a remarkable job at pretending to be in a daze— swaying lightly and staring at nothing. There was a large bruise across the side of his face. His eyes were covered by dull brown contacts.
He hummed again.
“I thought you were lying about the surprise,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face, “but I do like this one.”
He turned sharply to Tim. “Well then, Borya. All is forgiven, in that case. Tell me next time you want to hire someone, yeah?” he said with an awful, grating laugh. “Why, I nearly shot you! The misunderstanding of passion and reason, as Nietzsche says,” he sighed dreamily, “and so much passion…” he continued, staring at Dick hungrily. “Get him in a car and follow me back,” he ordered the head bodyguard. Then waved a dismissive hand in Tim’s direction. “We’re finished here, Borya. Continue the good work.”
He paused at the door. Turning slowly, he fixed Tim with a mean smile. “Oh, and kill the foreigner,” he told the guards. “We can’t let Borya get too big of a head, can we?”
He disappeared through the door, the guards filing out behind him, dragging Dick with them. All but one, who raised a gun to Jason’s head.
Tim shot a Stupify at his back. The man crumpled. Jason caught the gun before it could clatter to the ground. The door to the roof made a dull thump as it shut. “What the hell was that, Jason?” Tim hissed.
Jason pocketed the gun. “Come on,” he said, tugging Tim to the edge of the roof. He clambered over the side. “Our stuff’s hidden in the street. I’ll explain on the way.”
#
Of course, as soon as Bruce had realised they’d skipped the country, he’d immediately freaked out. The fact that Tim’s note had been considerably more detailed than the one Jason had left before Ethiopia did little to reassure him. At least Tim’s note included their location, in the hope it would keep him from coming after them. (A little reverse psychology.) And it worked— it wasn’t Batman that came after them.
It was Nightwing.
As if he’d waited for the worst possible moment to appear, he burst in on Jason, monitoring Tim’s infiltration. There was a fight first— of course— in which, in particular Bat- fashion, between escrima strikes, Dick had told Jason to come back home, and Jason had told him to fuck off. Somehow, they’d managed to have a halfway coherent conversation this way. Then they’d rushed to Tim’s rescue with a plan that… honestly, could have been more elegant, but really, what more can you do in half a minute with only a pair of sunglasses and a beanie you’d nabbed from some store along the way? So Dick posed as Boris’s “present” to Morozov, and would be brought to the man’s personal headquarters, where he would beat the man up and search for further material to take the organization down.
Tim and Jason followed the two cars with Morozov and Dick to make sure Dick didn’t need an extraction before time (“If anyone tries to touch you in there, Dickie, we’ll shoot the windows out.”
“Just the windows, though!” Dick insisted.
Jason gave a noncommittal hum.)
Eventually, the cars disappeared into an unassuming garage. The European criminals seemed to have a lot more discretion than the American ones, considering the lack of flamboyance. By this time, Jason had changed back into his suit, and they waited tensely for word from Dick.
Finally, their comms crackled to life. “Hey, boys,” a familiar voice said.
“O? Damn, you too? Party-crashing is in, huh,” Jason snorted.
“Party crashing? You wouldn’t have gotten halfway to Russia if I hadn’t disabled the rest of the alarms B had set up,” she pointed out. “This party started because of me.”
“Okay— point. We owe you one. What’s up with B, by the way? Should we be worried about a big, grumpy bat showing up behind us at any moment?”
“Dick convinced him to stay in Gotham,” Barbara explained. “He’s biting his nails to shreds over here though.”
“I can take care of my damn self,” Jason grumbled, about to launch into his usual Bruce-should-mind-his-business tirade, which was thankfully cut off by Barbara.
“Just wanted to let you guys know that N’s taken Morozov down, and he’s combing through the place. I’m hacking Morozov’s systems right now. You might want to take care of the guards outside. The garage door’s unlocked.”
“Time to beat up a bunch of assbags, let’s fucking go,” Jason said, cracking his knuckles. Tim sighed mournfully— he would have loved to punch a few goons’ teeth out too, but the Polyjuice was only set to wear off in another ten minutes, and there was no getting into the Robin suit like this. “See you in a jiffy,” Jason said, rising to his feet. With a maniacal grin, he launched himself off the side of the building.
#
The incriminating evidence Dick could find in Morozov’s home, as well as the recording from the contact lenses Tim had been wearing as Boris, were enough to perform a citizen’s arrest on everyone from the meeting they could round up. Rules for the arrests made by vigilantes were somewhat blurry, but the Justice League was granted special jurisdiction in most areas, so once Nightwing could prove he was working on behalf of Batman, the people he arrested were taken into police custody. Meanwhile, Babs was following Morozov’s digital trail to track down the rest of the organization.
Bruce was helping Nada recover her destroyed documentation. Hopefully she’d be able to return to Russia soon.
“Well, where next?” Dick asked Jason and Tim brightly. He hadn’t even checked out his own his hotel room, he’d simply made himself at home in theirs. Lounging on one of the beds, he watched curiously as the boys packed their suitcases.
“Back to Gotham with you, Golden Boy,” Jason told him with a sharp look. “I don’t want Bruce on my case any longer.”
Dick sat up slowly, cheerfulness melting off his face. “I’m your brother, Jay,” he said with a frown. “I’m not Bruce, and I’m not doing this on his behalf. I get you want your independence— trust me, I mean, you saw the screaming matches I used to get into with the big man— I get it. That doesn’t mean you push everyone away. C’mon.” He tried for a grin. “I can’t possibly be as bad as Bruce.”
Jason sighed. “No, you’re not.”
Dick’s grin broadened. “Well, then? Where are we heading?”
“You know how uncool it is to go on your big tour abroad with your big brother hanging over your shoulder?”
“Hey, I’m pretty cool! I can hang with the kids. Right, Tim?”
Tim stammered something, looking between Dick and Jason in panic. Jason groaned. “You know you can’t ask him, that’s not fair. No, stop—“ he said, raising his hand before Dick could say anything else embarrassing (by his teenage standards). “We’re going to Djémila, to see the best preserved Roman ruins in North Africa. It’s a vacation stop. If you want to come with, then you better have your bag packed in an hour— we’re not waiting on you.”
“I mean,” Tim began, “we still have four hours, we can wait a little—”
“We are not waiting,” Jason insisted.
“Got it,” Dick said with a wink. He hadn’t even unpacked after taking the Batwing in the first place, and his duffel bag had been shoved under the bed. But no need to tell his little brothers that.