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Chapter Text

BACKSTORY:

One year ago, Bruce Wayne assigned Tim Drake to investigate WCKD—an off-grid, black-ops biotech organization tied to several illegal contracts and underground human experimentation.

Tim went in deep.

Too deep.

WCKD discovered his identity. Before he could escape, they wiped his memory, rewriting it entirely with a fabricated history:

A world ravaged by the Flare.

An organization built to find a cure.

And a boy named Thomas—who had never been Tim.

⸻

For months, “Thomas” worked for WCKD.

He sent friends into the Maze. He monitored test data. He followed orders.

Until he couldn’t anymore.

The guilt broke through the programming. He betrayed WCKD, sending coordinates to what he believed was the Right Arm.

It was another trick.

WCKD had planned it all—just another phase.

So they threw him into the Maze.

⸻

But they hadn’t counted on who he really was.

They didn’t realize Thomas was Tim Drake.

One of the smartest minds in the world.

He solved the Maze faster than expected. Escaped with the Gladers.

WCKD scrambled. Chaos in the labs.

A few scientists broke programming. One escaped with her memories intact.

⸻

The Scorch Trials and the Death Cure unfolded like canon… or so it seemed.

At last, the Gladers reached the Safe Haven.

But it was a lie.

Another stage.

Another trick.

And that’s when everything truly fell apart.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t remember his name.

Not really.

He remembers pain. 

He remembers darkness.

Then a thousand words flash through his skull.

Tim. 

Thomas.

Robin.

Subject A2.

Red Robin.

Runner.

Replacement.

Glader.

But none of them feel right. 

None of them feel real.

——————————

The floor pounds beneath his feet.

It’s stone. No-concrete. Metal.

The echoes of his feet on the floor are loud, but not loud enough.

Not enough to drown out the voices.

“Thomas, get up!”

“Robin, report.”

“Subject A2 is unstable.”

“Replacement, you're hurting yourself.”

“Tommy.”

“Really, pretender?”

“You were supposed to forget.”

Make it stop! 

Stop it!

STOP!

“Ok, Timmy.”

——————————

When he comes to, he’s chained.

He’s snarling.

Fighting.

Then… the chains are broken.

There’s blood on his hands. 

Whose?

His fists are bruised.

From training?

Fighting?

Climbing?

He thinks there was a boy with blond hair. He hurts to think about.

A girl with pale skin.

A maze. A mask. A bat.

Everything is fractured. Like glass splintering.

If he breathed too hard, it would shatter completely.

Part of him wonders whether that would really be a bad thing.

——————————

But in the chaos, and amid the screaming.

Amid the static, Amid the twisting, endlessly spinning corridors of memory.

There is one thing he knows.

One thing that is true.

One thing that is real. 

Never. Stop. Running.

——————————

So he runs.

Down a twisting, shifting, spinning corridor.

One second it is the maze. Next, it’s Wayne manor. Then WCKD’s lab. Then the Batcave. The Glade. The last city.

Please, don’t leave me please please please-

An echo of a name.

Tommy.

A griever, chasing him down the hallway. 

So does Janson.

And Damian.

He can’t tell the difference anymore.

He runs until his lungs burn, and then some.

He runs until his legs wobble, and shake, and the cries from far behind him fade away to nothing.

He runs like he’s chasing a name he can’t quite remember.

Maybe he is running from it.

——————————

He skids to a stop.

In front of him, all of  the people he had failed to save.

Ben. 

Alby. 

Chuck. 

Jeff. 

Jack. 

Winston. 

Gally- no, he’s alive. He’s alive, right?

Min- Minho survived, he’s in the safe ha- No Minho was struck by lightning- he he-he lived, right? His brother lived.

Teresa. 

And… Newt.

His name reverberates through him like a thunderclap.

He knows it like how he knows the beat of his heart.

Or does he? 

Or is it a lie- no, Newt is real. 

Was real.

Newt Newt Newt Newt Newt

It hurts. 

Take me instead. 

“Please, Tommy, Please!”

Or was it Kon, to Superboy prime.

Or Bart.

No, no they lived. 

But he still lost them.

But if they lived… why are they here, watching?

He stopped running.

——————————

Ahead of him; A needle. Floating. Metallic. Shimmering with gold light. WCKD carved into its side like a scar. 

“Don’t worry Timmy, everything will be just fine.”

The second he touches it, everything goes white.

——————————

They keep calling him Tim. 

But he remembers dying as Thomas.

Chapter Text

It’s been five months since that day.

Since the needle. Since the white light. Since he tried to resume to Bat life. Since he stopped being Thomas ( did he really?) and tried to resume being Tim. Since he broke down in front of Cass, her sister ( Brenda… and Reesa.) and she promised she wouldn’t tell the others.

Since he swore he wouldn’t tell them, either.

He has been Timothy Drake ever since. Red Robin. The smart one. The strategist. The one who came home with shadows under his eyes and blood under his fingernails and never quite fully explained where he’d been.

Bruce had stopped asking after the third? Fourth? deflection. Jason called him full of it. Damian- he never trusted a word. Barbara-Babs just watched him from across the cave with a look he couldn’t quite place.

But they let him stay.

He was home.

Wasn’t he?

He got the message at 3:45AM. 

Gordon: Another body, down an alley in the Narrows.

Gordon: Kid. Male. Fifteen. No visible injuries. No blood.

Tim puzzled over it for a few seconds before he got distracted by his current case.

It was probably just another overdose or something. 

So why was it so hard to stop thinking about?

——————————

Tim had just been in the middle of deciphering one of Riddler’s newest plots when an alert popped up on the side of the monitor. 

He glanced up briefly, his mind still running through possible clues, when his fingers froze and his heart seized and shuddered. 

Gordon: Black veins.

He was out the window the next second.

——————————

The city was wet and cold when Red Robin dropped into the alley way. Rain gathered around his combat boots. 

Tim used to wear soft, almost gymnast type shoes like Dick does, perfect for flipping and even better for landing after a grapple.

He never did after it happened. 

He knows just how important running can be.

——————————

He shook himself out of his stupor, tuning into the sounds of Gotham around him. A single streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting long shadows interspersed by pale light. 

Gordon was already there, his coat soaked and his eyes hooded with tiredness.

“You’re here early,” he said, examining the body that looked a little to grey to be alive. 

Red Robin didn’t answer. He crouched down next to the commissioner, scanning over it silently.

Like the reports said, male. Looks around fifteen.

What they didn’t mention was how wide blown his pupils were. 

How bubbles of black foam had gathered around his mouth.

How, peeking out from under the edge of his tee, was a black, darkened vein. 

Tho- Tims breathing caught in his throat, and he slowly lifted the edge.

The most important thing that they didn’t mention?

His pitch-black veins, spreading out from the neck and chest like scorched roots under glass.

Tim reached for his collar, carefully lifting the boy up and tilting his head back. No pulse. No blood.

Just cold skin and those jagged, unnatural lines like-

No.

No no no. 

He knew this pattern.

Not here. Not in Gotham.

His breath hitched, but he forced his hands to stay steady. 

Maybe if he downplayed it, Gordon wouldn’t notic- He’s cut off by the commissioner’s voice, and resisted the urge to facepalm. 

“Ya seen something like this before?” He asked, glancing at Red Robin.

Tim’s voice didn’t work at first. When it finally did, it cracked a little. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Once upon a time.”

He stood. Fast. Almost unnaturally. He didn’t look at the body again.

——————————

The Batcave was silent when he returned. Then again, it always was. But tonight the silence felt heavier, like the cave itself was holding its breath. 

Tim dropped the evidence bag on the table and pulled off his gloves with shaking hands. The forensics scanner beeped and blinked to life. But he didn’t start the analysis.

He just stood there. 

Watching the monitor.

Staring at the unnaturally pale skin. The scorched-black veins. The expression frozen forever more on the boy's face.

It was like the flare.

It was the flare.

And this time, it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t the remnants of the Maze memories bleeding through the walls he put in place. This was Gotham. This was real.

——————————

He hadn’t told them.

Not Bruce. Not Dick. Not even Cass knew the full story.

He had told himself it would be safer that way. That way the Maze, WCKD, and the Glade-none of it could touch the family. That it was buried. Done. Over.

But then… the bodies appeared.

And the marks.

And the black veins.

And now…

Now the alley.

Now the sound of metal claws dragging, scratching rolling over concrete.

Now the glint of metal in the shadows, the eerie clicking sounds.

The tiny red lights, glimmering and glittering. 

Letting you know that they are the predators.

And you? You are the prey.

——————————

Tim pulled up the autopsy scan. No drugs. No signs of previous infection. No signs of a struggle.

It looks flawless. To the untrained eye, there was nothing. But Tim wasn’t the untrained eye. He had been taken through vigorous scenarios, searching over and over again until he could find the smallest imperfection by Bruce.

He had been forced to learn that the smallest imperfection meant everything to the upper circles of the Gotham elite, at the hand of Janet Drake. 

To most people, there would be nothing. But Tim Drake isn’t most people. 

There should be nothing- and yet, there it was.

A tiny puncture wound just below the jugular.

Barely visible.

Almost like a needle. 

——————————

Tim leaned back in his chair, his head reeling with his discovery. 

It wasn’t supposed to follow him.

The Maze was gone.

The Gladers, his Gladers ( his real family don’t take them please please pleas- ) had been separated, but they were safe.

He had been Timothy Drake for three months. Careful, strategic, silent.

He had shut Thomas in a box and buried him in the deepest, darkest parts of his brain. (The place where the laughter echoed, where Kon screamed and Newt begged, pleaded, for Tommy to kill him.) 

But it was not enough.

And somewhere, deep within the silence of the cave, he could still hear the whisper of a memory.

| “Please, Tommy, Please.”

——————————

He stared at the screen, eyes burning.

If this was what he thought it was…

He wasn’t going to be able to hide everything for much longer. 

And next time?

It wouldn’t be a body.

It would be a Griever.

Chapter Text

It all started with the scream.

High, unnatural, wet. Babs sent through the location. Somewhere in the sewers below Ace Chemical Processing Plant. Tim tugged his cowl off, his ears ringing but unable to stop listening. 

Dread pooled in his gut as he hyperventilated.

His head and heart pounded because he knows that scream. Knows the way it would echo and settle in his bones almost as a threat, a taunt, letting the world know that it had no idea what was coming.

Tim ran.

The same way he did in the maze, running from the same creatures that haunt his dreams. The same way he did when he fled Gotham, running from Dick and Damian. 

The same way he did when Newt stopped breathing.

Because he knows it’s not a Gotham scream. It’s not some mugger, or a rogue wrecking havoc. It- it is different.

It’s Maze.

-.-

He could smell it before his eyes fully opened- hot metal, acid, and rot. He pinched his nose, scanning the shadows.

A skrit sound echoed behind him, and he spun, but there was nothing there. 

Slowly, methodically, he scanned the room. Then… drip. A small green globule of… slime? Landed on his shoulder. He looked up, seeing a trail of green slime. 

He gave a wry smile-at least he wasn't going to go out like some cliche horror movie character.

And then he saw it.

In the alley corridor below him, half-submerged in water and shadows—

A Griever.

Eight legs, mechanical. Thick, slimy flesh fused with steel. Its scorpion- esque bladed stinger glints in the dim green light.

It’s real.

-.-

Red Robin doesn’t hesitate. He drops hard, batarangs flying seconds before he hits the ground. One slices into the Griever’s flank, sparks flying. The thing screeches like rusted brakes- then it lunges.

Th- Tim dodges fast, flipping and springing off the slick wall. His hand grabs a pipe overhead—he swings, lands, twists—

And the Griever’s stinger slams into the concrete where his head was only a few seconds ago.

Too close.

“Red Robin, report.”

Bruce’s- no, Batman’s voice crackles in his comm, his voice almost urgent.

Is he… worried about Tim?

Ha, he thought. He’s probably just worried that his precious little demon spawn could be caught in the crossfire. 

He could count on one hand the amount of times anyone in his so-called “family” (aside from Cass) worried about him more than the way people worry about their tools.

He winced as he was dragged out of his thoughts by a Griever arm slicing towards his stomach. 

It’s probably best to table that thought train- a self-deprecating spiral is so not what he needs right now.

“Busy,” Tim barely manages to grit out, landing a kick to the Griever’s central eye. It shrieks again.

“Is that metal scraping? What’s your location?”

Tim doesn’t answer, barely taking a moment to crush the tracker in his cowl. He wasn’t supposed to know about it, but well, when the king of paranoia was your mentor, you learn to notice those things. 

 He rips open his utility belt, jams an explosive disc into the Griever’s side and rolls backward as it detonates.

The stench of burning oil fills the tunnel, infiltrating Tim’s nose.

The Griever sinks beneath the water, dropping out of sight.

It doesn’t die.

Of course it doesn’t.

They’ve never died easy.

-.-

Red Robin scanned the liquid, bladed bō staff at the ready.

Only the tiny ripples gave him any indication as to the location of the Griever, slinking through the chemical baths. 

And… there!

The Griever bursts out of the water, but Tim was prepared. He jammed his bō staff into its flank, the metal shrieking. 

Then, the Griever snaps Tim titanium staff, practically unbreakable, in half, and launches at him. 

Tim’s fighting harder now—rage in his bones, fear in his lungs, Thomas clawing his way up from the basement of his mind where he hid him like he never left.

• Ẏ̷̺͉̬̖̮̖͕̗̎̌̀͗̀̚͝͠ͅơ̷̡̝͍̣̦̣̦̗̲̞̘̖͉̞̣̖̲͎̟̏͂͌̎́̕̕͝u̴̝̘͍͍̥̺̗̅͜ ̴̨̨̛̮͎̠̭͙͓̯̮̔̊͋̿͌́̾͋͆̔̈͘͝w̶̧̧̞̭̫̟̻͙̼͊̽̌̌̉͌̊̅̑́̎͗̕̚ͅȩ̴̧͚̩̬͓͔͕̙͍̲̻̪̟̻͚̺̮͓̳̻̦͌̀̾̋̋r̵̨̛̛̗͙̹̠̙͉̐̆̒̍̏̀̋̈̒͜e̵̢̲̜̜͙͉̅̆̈́̅͛̃͒͜͝ ̴̡̡̡̥͎͚̭̭̠̭̞͙͇͎̾̽̽̑̊́͐̃̕̕͠ṡ̸̢̩̫͙͎̖͈̲̗͕̠̹͂̎̈́̒̾͗̑͐͛̓͆̄̇͜͠͝ư̷̡̛̖̘̬͕̬̹̞͍͉̪̬͓̳̮̞̰͐͌̑̑̊͛͆̇̑̄̄̌͗̂͛͘̕͠p̷̳̹͈͉̬͕̭̺̬̙̣̺̦̃̆̊ṕ̴̧̖̺̞̫͎̍́ȏ̵̢̨̧̙̠͕̫͍̱̗͔͈̥̥̍͒̚s̵̨̻̯͖̯̘̥͙̬̙̭͈̗̤̖̲͕̄̃̇̄̎͋̓̍͆̅̀̎̔̏̆̃͐̚͝͝ȩ̶̧͈̙̜̺̠̓̌̈́̉̂̀̏̓̾͒͂̑̉̽̌̚͝͝ͅd̴̨̛͕̜̜͇̫̯̲͉̝͉̲̹͎̦̖͉̅́̎̔̃̓̂͗̋̆̎́̾̔̎̀͜͝͝ ̸͙̣̹͕̟͔̻̙̞̃́̾͑̃̃ͅţ̴̛̟͚͍̰̱͍̥̬͖̲̭̳͍͉̹̬̩̲̟̇̋͌͋͛̑̎̇̃̅͌̌̍̈́̉̎͘̕̚̚͝ͅǫ̶̺̣̝̟̙͍̪̠̬̥͕̯̩͍͇̯͙̺͔̠̈́̓̄̍̂̆͒̂̇̂̃́̓̈́̃͘͝ ̵̛̮̳̝̠̯̱̗͔̯̹͈̦̳̳̭͔͖̯̝̹́͆́͐̔̃̎̎̓̾̊͆̌͑̽̅̍́̓͘̚f̴̢͎̪̲͇̻̤̮̗̀̉̃̀͋̍̕ö̷̧̨̮͚̭͓̩̖̟̗͖̝̉͑̉̅̊̍̚ŗ̵̲͍͈̯̟̠̜̙̭̦̦͛͑́́́͛͋̒̓͑̆g̴̨͕̻͉̰̟̭̟̣̩͖̠̭̯̫̲̦̘̙̠̎̊̓̐͋͛̓͗̑͛̾͒͗̚͜ȅ̵̢̛͕̞̮̦̫̩̻͔̳̭̱̺̣̄͛͛̆̀͆̈́͗̋̉̓̔̿͋̀̚͜͝͝ṫ̸͈̦̞̣̝͖͔̞͇͖̻̘̣͇͋͆̃͑̈́͐́̍̿̐̉̅̿̋̂ͅ

S

(You were supposed to forget)

Sounds gratingly, from the griever, echoing through his mind. It knows he was maze, then.

He screams, jumps, in the process driving a knife into its throat joint—and finally, the Griever stills.

Dead.

For now.

-.-

Bruce POV

The screen flickered again as he tried to clear the video.

Static crawled over the feed as the signal repeatedly tried again and again to no avail to stabilize.

Barbara was silent next to him, her jaw tight with stress.

“Chemical Sector Seven ,” she muttered. “Sewer surveillance cam designation thirty-two just rebooted.”

Bruce just stared at the glitching screen. 

“Come on, come on,” Babs muttered, tapping repeatedly on the screen as she frantically adjusted the frequency.

“There!” She exclaimed triumphantly, hovering her mouse over a disturbance on the staticy screen.

A swift blur of movement. Something large. Something fast.

Then, they saw him.

Red Robin.

Soaked, and bloodied. Moving with a kind of fury Bruce hadn’t seen in years.

He wasn’t fighting like a bat.

He was fighting like a survivor .

-.-

“What is that? Down there with him,” Bruce said, voice rumbling, gravelly and low.

Babs didn’t respond. The truth was, she didn’t know either. And there was no point for empty platitudes and promises- nothing she could say could and would assuage his worry.

The screen glitched again.

Then, for a frame—less than a heartbeat—they saw it.

The spindly, mechanically grating legs.

The long, scorpion-like tail.

Then, they heard it.

The scream.

-.-

Bruce stood quickly.

“I’m going.”

“Wait.” Barbara’s urgent, sharp voice stopped him.

He turned his head to look at her just as she pointed at the next frame.

A second figure—blurry, stumbling, limping into view.

“Someone else just fell into that fresh hell with him.”

-.-

Tim Pov

He walks away on shaking, uneven legs, sagging against the wet concrete. He should definitely visit Doctor Thompkins to get more antibiotics- this definitely wouldn’t be good for his spleen (or at least his lack of one).

He was just about to scan over his injuries when he heard footsteps.

Not heavy like Bruce. Not clipped like Damian.

Wavering.

Stuttering.

Running .

Tim turns fast, weapon drawn—please don’t be hallucinating, don’t be hallucinating—

And a shadow stumbles with stuttering steps into view.

Limps forward.

Bloody. Bruised. But achingly familiar.

And grinning through blood-slicked teeth.

“Hey, Thomas,” Minho says, collapsing to the ground. “Took you long enough.”

Tim drops to his knees without thinking.

Mud and blood soak into his gloves, but he doesn’t care.

Minho grins again, dazed. “Still dramatic, I see.”

And Tim—Thomas forgets how to breathe.

Chapter Text

There’s blood on the floor of the Batcave.

Again.

Tim watches as Alfred works silently over Minho’s unconscious body, hands gentle but careful and precise. The medbay lights are bright, sterile. 

The blood is a sharp, sickeningly red shade against Minho’s tan skin.

He is breathing. Barely. But at least he’s alive.

Tim hasn’t blinked in ten minutes.

Because how could he? That was Thomas’s brother. Dick may have been his brother too, once upon a time, but those days were long past. He was too preoccupied with Jason and the demon spawn to worry about Tim.

But even then, his time spent with Dick paled in comparison to Min. 

Minho, who he bled for. Ran for. 

Who he knows would, could, and had done the same for him.

In a heartbeat, he was across the cave. 

Next to his brother.

——————————

“Who is he?”

Bruce’s voice is quiet, calm. Tim knows that’s when he’s at his most dangerous.

Yet, Tim doesn’t answer.

Behind Bruce, Jason leans against the wall, arms crossed and scowl dark and loaded with… something.

Damian watches Minho like he’s expecting him to grow claws.

Babs is… silent. Her eyes flick from Tim to the boy on the table, unreadable.

Bruce takes a couple steps forward, tone softening, becoming less Batman and more worried Bruce. Tim knows it's a ploy though.

“Tim. Talk to me.”

Tim’s jaw clenches. A dozen memories flash through his mind—

The Maze. Minho laughing. Minho running. Minho crying.

Minho dragging him out of a WCKD lab, covered in blood and screeching, screaming his name.

Him, Minho, and Newt.

Running, crying, laughing. Even jumping. Jumping out of the burning WICKED building.

Tim shuts his eyes and tries to block out the memories.

“He’s just a guy I found in the sewer,” he says, tone flat. Even. “He was hurt. I helped.”

Jason laughs. Cold. Dark and Hollow.

“Sure. And I’m Santa Claus.”

Damian scoffs. “The sewer system is on lock down. Nothing and no one gets in without triggering sensors. So either he magically teleported, or you’ve been helping him longer than you’re admitting.” Damian’s tone showed exactly which option he believed. 

Tim doesn’t move, causing Bruce’s eyes to narrow. “What aren’t you telling us?”t

Alfred clears his throat softly. “His injuries are consistent with electrocution and blunt force trauma. Not recent. Prolonged.”

A brief pause.

“He’s been running from something.”

——————————

That’s when Minho stirs.

All eyes in the medical room turn to stare directly at him.

His fingers twitch and buzz. His mouth opens with a low, quiet groan.

Tim is back at his side in an instant. “Easy,” he says, voice hushed and quiet, but loud enough to be heard. “You’re safe.”

Minho opens one eye. Cracks a slight, tired smile.

“ Liar .”

Jason straightens up, his head swiveling from Tim to Minho like he was watching a tennis match. “Okay, seriously, who the hell is this?”

Minho - his brother please don’t take him please please please- looks at him. Then at the rest of the room, well, the rest of the cave. He squints.

“Is that a kid with a sword?” he mumbles under his breath. “And a—holy sh, is this a cave? Is this… is this real?”

“Unfortunately,” Tim mutters.

Minho’s head falls back. “Slinthead. You owe me so many shucking answers.”

Tim doesn’t reply. But hearing the Glader slang again makes something settle in his chest that he hadn’t realized was ever unsteady.

——————————

Bruce crosses his arms stormily.  “Name?”

Minho doesn’t look at him, which is impressive in itself. Ignoring The Batman is hard even for Tim, and he spent most of his teens with the man. Then again, Min had always been stubborn.

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by Minho looking at Tim.

Waiting.

Expecting him to say it.

To admit who he is. Where he came from. What happened.

Tim’s throat is dry. The words try to form. They burn and shrivel up in his throat. They linger. Hurt. Stick like super glue to the inside of his throat.

The Glade. WCKD. The Maze.

Thomas.

He meets Minho’s eyes.

“His name’s Miguel.”

Minho doesn’t blink.

But his mouth does twitch in to a half-smile. “Sure,” he says dryly. “Miguel. Let’s go with that.”

——————————

Bruce stares. Long. Hard.

Tim says nothing.

Because what’s the point?

They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Not anymore.

——————————

That night, after the cave goes dark and the others drift off to patrol and pretend they trust him, Tim sits beside Minho in the medbay.

Neither of them speak for a while.

Then Min says, “I saw a Griever.”

Tim nods.

“I saw WCKD’s mark on a wall.”

“I know.”

“They’re here, Thomas.”

Tim doesn’t look up, but he does pull Minho’s stitches just a little bit tighter. “Don’t call me that.”

Minho doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t apologize, either.

Two hundred, come on!!!

——————————

Eventually, the others drift back in after a long night patrol. 

The hum of chatter and machinery blends nicely, and would almost be soothing if he didn’t know it was all about him and Min.

Eventually though, the room falls back into an odd, stifling and weighted silence.

The only sound is the soft hum of machines, Alfred sorting the laundry,  and the relievingly steady beep and hum of Minho’s vitals.

Tim doesn’t know how long he sits there beside him. Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.

Eventually, footsteps approach behind him—soft, familiar, but sure with purpose.

Alfred.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just sets a fresh mug of tea beside Tim’s elbow. The smell of chamomile and something vaguely citrus scented drifts upward.

Tim gives a small, forced smile but doesn’t drink it.

“I thought you might want to know,” Alfred says gently, “Miss Stephanie returns from her undercover trip to Metropolis tomorrow.”

Tim doesn’t answer.

But something in his spine goes tense, and a flicker of something sharp twists behind his ribs.

When Minho questions his odd expression, he tells him it’s nothing.

He doesn’t exactly know who he was trying to convince.

Chapter Text

Steph POV

Alfred greeted Cass and her at the door with a slightly strained smile. Steph glanced at him with slight concern, before brushing it off with a shrug and yelling, “I’m home!” 

Cass smiled at her with amusement- not that that expression lasted long.

Her face twiched and quickly turned into concern at the lack of replies. 

Alfred’s eyebrows twitched. “They’re in the Batcave, Miss Stephanie.” 

~

Steph didn’t make it more than three steps into the Batcave before the memory hit her like a brick to the skull (shocking-normally that's a sensation she gives other people.)

The dulled lights. The hum of the medical table. The scent of antiseptic and slightly burnt, scorched metal.

And then- the boy.

Darker, tanned skin. Short, messy but still model looking black hair. A long, stretched scar on his temple. Lean. But built like a runner.

She didn’t know him.

Except- she did.

The room tilted, twisted, spun . 

Minho- how did she know his name - she didn’t, honestly she didn’t- turned toward her slowly at first, before shooting straight upright. 

His voice cracked with urgency, desperation.

“Te-Teresa?”

Steph- she, she staggered, hand blindly grabbing the nearest rail. The word- no, the, her name-  hit her like a nail hammered directly into the space behind her eyes. Like Running. Like a scratch from a Crank- no that's not real- it’s not-it couldn’t be.

There's ringing in her ears. And then- a gasp. Who? Wait… no, no, it was her. Teresa? No, Steph. A1. Batgi-No, Spoiler. She made a name for herself- but that was the problem, wasn’t it.

She gasped again, before her lips moved of her own accord, words slipping out half formed.

“I-I-what did you say?”

Minho’s face broke into something small and slight, but almost desperately happy. “You’re alive. I knew it. I told them, the others,” His voice slowly filtered out. Others? She can’t remember any others-actually no, that's a lie. 

She… she remembered her. Brown pixie cut. Combat boots. Battle hardened and weary, the same as any of them, But with something else, something deeper, in her eyes. 

The betrayed look on her face when she betrayed the- no, she kept them safe. WCKD said-

WCKD? She knows that word- but she can’t -she-she doesn’t.

When she brings herself out of her panic attack, Minho is still talking.

“you had to be, I—”

“Stop.” Her voice came out small at first. Weak. Shaky. “I’m not—I don’t—”

Tim stepped forward, a dark expression covering his face.

“Get away from her.”

Minho blinked in surprise. “Tommy—”

“Don’t call me that,” Tim snapped, voice sharper than shattered, broken glass. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

Minho’s face started to match Tim’s rapidly darkening expression.

Steph looked between them, heart racing.

She felt like she was falling sideways through time. The Cave wasn’t the Cave anymore— it was glowing walls and white halls and screaming, crying, Running.

She remembered a metal door slamming shut.

A white, unnaturally perfect needle.

Blood on glass.

And Minho.

Bound to a table.

Eyes wide.

Shaking.

Stuck in his mind with his fears.

Begging her to stop.

Her knees almost gave out.

“No,” she whispered. “No no no no—”

“I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t- ”

“Teresa,” Tim cut in, his voice low and bitter. “You remember.”

Steph shook her head. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—”

“You left us. You betrayed us.”

Her face twisted. “You think I wanted to?!”

“You chose them!”

“I don’t even know who I was!”

“Oh yeah!?” He’s screaming now, up in her face. 

“So you don’t remember how you KILLED NEWT!?”

And… Te-Steph didn’t know how to respond to that so she didn’t. She just kept shaking.

———

Tim Pov

Bruce’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “That’s enough.”

Tim turned toward him, breathing hard.

He didn’t want to hurt Minho. But he refused to let Teresa break him again. He’s sick of protecting people who won’t protect him and his own back.

He made his eyebrows low and defiant. If the Bat’s wanted an argument, they sure as shuck would be getting one.

Jason raised a brow. “Okay, Replacement, what the hell is going on?”

Damian stepped forward, sword clutched too tight, but a slightly smug look on his face. “She’s compromised. And Drake is clearly useless. We should’ve kept him under tight supervision from the beginning.”

———

Tim laughed. Bitter. Broken.

“Right. Of course. The second I stop playing perfect soldier, I’m dangerous again.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re emotional, Imposter. Reckless. Weak.”

Tim scoffed. “Says the twelve-year-old with a murder stick.”

Jason cut in. “Oh, wooh to being rude to the demon brat, but I don’t think you're in a good place to be talking right now.”

Dick placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling at Tim with faux kindness (it has to be- kindness from Dick was always a ruse.) “We just want you to be safe, Timmy.”

“Enough,” Bruce growled. “Tim-what aren’t you telling us?”

———

Tim breathed through his nose as he stared at them.

Tim breathed through his nose as he stared at them.

All of the bats.

His family.

But not the ones that bled with him. Stayed with him. Ran with him.

The ones that told him he had to be useful to be loved.

———

“I tried,” Tim said, voice shaking. “I tried to leave it behind. I tried to be your perfect soldier again. But I’m not. And I will never be again.”

He looked at Steph.

“I’m not just Tim. I’m not just Robin. I was Thomas. You were Teresa. And WCKD used us.”

———

Steph’s mouth opened. “I—I think I believe you.”

He turned away so he wouldn’t crack at his siste-at Teresa’s sad face.

His voice turned low and bitter. “I wish that was enough.”

There was silence after that. Not peaceful. The kind of silence that comes when no one knows what to say.

Then came the alarms.

———

Cave lights flashed red.

“INTRUSION DETECTED.”

“East entrance. Five hostiles,” Oracle’s voice crackled over the comms where she had obviously been listening from. “Approaching fast.”

Bruce moved instantly, ordering formations.

But then—

A voice.

From the cave entrance.

“Don’t shoot,” they said.

“We’re not here to fight.”

———

The shadows peeled back.

And there they were.

Brenda. Gally. Jorge. Frypan. Aris.

Dirty. Armed. Real.

Gally stepped forward, eyes locking on Tim.

“We’ve been looking for you.”

———

And just like that—

The Batcave didn’t feel like home anymore.