sixthiterationlogs | young, dumb, & broke

Entry tags:

young, dumb, & broke

WHO: Tim Drake and (---)
WHERE: Fountain Park, nowhere and everywhere
WHEN: August 28, and surrounding days
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: N/A but will warn in threads

Arrival (South Village) : Fountain
[He coughs, and he wakes up.

He wakes up because, when he coughs, there's water rushing down his throat and up his nose and into his lungs. It's not the most pleasant way to wake up after an exhausting night's work. Thankfully (for some given value), it isn't the least pleasant way to wake up, either. Not in Tim's mind. So his throat burns and his eyes have trouble adjusting to the blur of being underwater (fresh water), and it's taking a hell of a lot of control to not give in to the urge to let the coughing fit take over and instead suppress it (Tim's pretty sure he's either beet red or splotching blue at this point). He listens to training, though, and refuses to drown before he at knows what the hell's happened; he's climbing over the lip of the pool (no, fountain) in no time at all, just kind of hanging there for a moment as his eyes adjust again to the surface.

No... immediate threat, that he can process. And still, he's got goosebumps of sorts. The backpack (waterproof-- weird) is ditched and Tim sucks in a breath before submerging himself in the water again. He dives purposefully to the bottom of the fountain-- it's all solid underneath. He pushes, what bit he can. And gives up for today because he's wearing clothes he hadn't been wearing before and that's weird and the next time Tim surfaces, brows pinched in frustration and tiredness (he couldn't even get one full night's sleep)] _{Damn it...} [he sees a-- person. You. Close by. He swings out of the fountain and prays that backpack he's slung onto his shoulders has a towel but first:] You don't look surprised to see me climb out of that thing. [Game: start.]

Arrival (South Village) : Police Station
[He's fresh from the fountain, but his navy blue shirt is hanging from where he'd tied it on a strap of his pack (for easier drying) and he's left in the tank top. It's uncomfortably moist and clings to his skin and Tim wants nothing more than to find a dryer, for heaven's sake-- but that seems like less and less of an attainable fantasy with every block of this town he passes. He's a tourist.

He takes in the sights.

And then he maps out his first destination: coming up this street is what looks undeniably like a police precinct. He makes a beeline for it. There should be records, files, computers, something familiar--

and then he is, not for the first time, so horribly let down.] People keep animals here? [Speaking to himself: check. Stating the fucking obvious: check. Tim steps... almost gingerly through the place anyway, because something has to have been salvaged, right? --god, it's obvious the boy very much wasn't raised on a farm.]

Settling In (South Village) : Inn & Housing & Boathouse
[He'll be around, trying to keep his head relatively low and (amazingly) keeping the exploration to a minimum until he understands this whole... bullshit a little bit better. But Tim isn't keeping still, isn't holing himself up, not really. He knows there's hubbub of something odd, something very uncommon going around. Three cheers for gossip and the habit to eavesdrop. He spends the next few days scouring houses that seem unoccupied, venturing into the Inn during its busier hours just to kind of... hang, and maybe ask questions when someone looks like they definitely know what they're doing.

Occasionally he makes trips to the boathouse, because he doesn't sleep (you can't prove that he does, anyway).

Here is the wildcard option.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It took some time for Steph to calm down after catching her first glimpse of him. She ran fast enough that he could only have seen a blonde head, if anything. Once she did calm down she knew what she had to do. There were only so many options in a village as small as this one.

She wanders around, looking as casual as she can manage with a baseline anxiety level of Too Much. She has to look for him without appearing to actually look for him.

She wanders into the police station under the guise of hanging out with the animals for a little while. After all, she was raised in a big ass city and she's never been to a petting zoo either. ]

[It's a good thing he never did catch sight of a blonde running away from him. Even now, hyper-aware and wandering, Tim's focus is on maneuvering through this... barn. There's nothing useful that he's found and the headache just keeps mounting because seriously--? Something nagging tells him he should be a little more baffled by some of the animals, clearly not from his world.

He pivots. The farther into the pens he goes, he more it becomes obvious he's currently out of his depth.

Two rooms back the way he came, and he has to stop-- he balks a little, honest, and he isn't sure he doesn't gasp in a breath that sounds more pained than confused. Stephanie. Not the girl who told him off last, but he knows her. He only doesn't call her name out of reflex because his mind is working to put two and two together, and find out what

what's wrong. What doesn't fit.] Steph. [But he always did work fast. His entire body tenses-- wary, unnerved, and he's doing a shit job at concealing it. He isn't trying. Tim has the awareness to muse on the fact that... that's new. Or old, as the case may be.

She's younger. Her hair-- he always did like that haircut-- he blinks back the memories; they won't help.

His brows furrow. It's a coincidence that--] Were you following me?

[ She doesn't look up until he says her name. ]

Tim? Hey!

[ She brightens as though she isn't terrified of how this meeting might end. He doesn't seem happy to see her though, and that's a bad sign. Her smile falls away. ]

What? No. I didn't even know you were here. Why would I be following you?

[ It's not technically a lie. 'Looking for' is not the same as 'following'. ]

[Good question, and one he honestly has no answer to. That doesn't mean he buys her bluff

but the whole of him loses that uncertain edge, as if just hearing her talk solidified the fact that she wasn't a hallucination, projection, whatever. He's still tense in a way that Steph might recognize, the kind that would fly under a stranger's radar. She's frowning at him. Why wouldn't he still be tense?] I don't know, I just don't believe in coincidences anymore, I guess.

[If timelines got mixed, then what else was screwed up? Tim hates himself for it, but he keeps their distance. He'll feel more at home in his own skin once he learns what she'll expect from him. That's what he tells himself, as if he doesn't already want to make a run for it. But his poker face, when called on, is damn good. Tim isn't entirely grateful for that right now.

--but he never really was a great boyfriend.] You did a pretty good job at sneaking up on me. [She's like, what, sixteen? No...] Comes with having the home field advantage, right? [She has the same getup he and every other person he's encountered has. Color-coded, all of them.]

[ She tries a smile, just a small one, her usual half-teasing smile. Why isn't he coming any closer? He must know about the gang war, about what she did. She was right. He does hate her. Should she approach him? Does she dare? God, she barely remembers what normal even looks like anymore. ]

I wasn't trying to.

[ No, this is weird, they can't talk from this far apart. She picks her way across the room until they're at more of a social distance from each other. Still, she can't bring herself to come too close. He might see right through her. ]

You still look a little soggy. Did you just get here?

[Something's off. Something's wrong. The densest of people could read between the lines with them, so why couldn't Tim put his finger on it? He pointedly ignores her smile; it's like she forced it on. On the other hand, he keeps put and doesn't raise any defenses when she does the sensible thing and comes close.

It's always her who makes the effort. Some day he might tell her he always appreciated that.

But for now Tim sighs his response. It's natural and shockingly sincere, and accompanied by him raising both hands, palms up and out, in that "what can you do" gesture that spans cultures and hopefully, the multiverse.] Just a "little" soggy? [He spares a glance to the livestock around them, because apparently that's a better alternative to looking at Steph now that she's so... here. (God, he hasn't grown an inch in years, has he?)] Yeah, I woke up in a fountain. Apparently that's normal around here. That must have been... [Screw it, he'll check his watch--] An hour ago? I decided, why not go sight-seeing.

[He never really expected--] Steph, I don't think I'm who you remember.

[ Her smile gets a little more natural, at least. He's cutting right to the chase, and that's probably for the best. Besides, if they're not from the same world that means she can relax, right? If he hates her it will be for something someone else did. ]

I thought maybe not. You seem older than I remember. Though it has been a month or two.

They've usually got a fire going at the inn, if you want to dry off.

[A month? He can't help but mouth the word back at her, waiting for confirmation that she hadn't just thrown out some arbitrary number. And she's this detached about... everything? He hums, though, and the reasoning he gives himself is that he's really trying to rule out a hallucination--

he steps past her, bumps her shoulder.] Can't look twelve forever.

[And it's more natural, and he's finally aware he's actually breathing. There's anxiety bleeding from a new tightness in his gut to the extremities of his limbs.

He still doesn't know anything about what she knows or has lived; and Steph, damn her, was purposely withholding.] Warm and dry sounds good. [But he'll get some truth out of her.] The last thing I need is to keel over from a cold. [It's not great. It's not good. He'll bet on her worry because he worried; because he hasn't shaken off the nauseating feel of the unknown, but they-- they owe it to themselves, right? To fucking try to learn?]

[ She wants to laugh, but that bump is too intentional. She just stands there for a moment, trying to gather herself. Apparently it doesn't matter if they're from different worlds. The idea of him hating her leaves her with that same sense of desolation. She takes a deep breath before turning around to follow him out, a smile plastered on her face again.

She can get through this. She has to get through this. ]

Just don't go catching pneumonia. I'm pretty sure we're stuck on herbal remedies around here. C'mon then, there's food too.

[ Once they're outside she takes the lead, bypassing the fountain for the next building over. There's smoke coming from the chimney, though not very much of it.

Inside she makes a beeline for the kitchen, where a huge pot of stew lies half-empty, waiting for the residents to come for seconds. She makes a bowl for both of them, just for something to do. She's too sick with anxiety to feel like eating. ]

[It's his turn to drop the facade and frown at her words.] That can't be right, there's enough technology here to build an intranet, possibly track every one of us in real-time, not to mention collect us here in the first place. [The words are practically monotone- half-rambles to himself. There's no reason to believe Steph had lied on that front. He opens his mouth again. Closes it.

Follows and debates.] That's kind of what I mean, though. Pneumonia would be the death of me. Any untreated infection would, really. [It's not that he's getting a kick out of the confession, if the way he has to drag it out of himself is any indication.

But Steph's fetching them... soup? And Tim remembers asking Dana for help in making a pot, because Steph had gotten a cold that one time. He already feels sick, and knows he won't be eating much, if anything.] You wouldn't happen to have an extra shirt lying around, would you?

The watches are the only tech here that's past early 20th century.

[ This place she can talk about. It's impersonal, and all of the bad is so much less than she had before that it doesn't even begin to bother her.

She hands him a bowl and spoon and heads back out to the lobby, grabbing a dining chair on the way so they can sit close to the fire. ]

I've got a couple. Think you could fit into this one?

[ She uses her free hand to tug at her scrub top. It's the least fitted clothing item she has, apart from the overalls.

Of course, that reminds her- ]

Didn't you have a backpack when you arrived? There should be dry clothes in there.

[There goes his fantasy of an in-unit washer/dryer set-up. He pulls a face. Can't be sure he isn't pouting at the news that he has no toys, that maybe tiptoeing through barns is going to be a more necessary skill than he'd thought.

He doesn't believe the theory, but he'll accept that it's all that's been found.]

I-- [To his credit, he doesn't blush; that'd be hypocritical overkill, but Tim has the tell-tale deer-in-headlight startle as Steph moves a hand to her top. Of course, there's a shirt underneath and she doesn't remove it but

Um.] Uh. Yeah, but I accidentally knocked it back into the water when I went back in. [Waterproofing meant nothing with a zipper open. Who knew. It was hanging back at the... you know what, she didn't need to know. Tim considers their sizes, wants to go back in time and take back his dumb request.

Practicality wins out.] Maybe? I'll try not to stretch it out. [He doesn't want to get walked in on, with Tim Drake Wayne's body a mess of new and old scars and raised skin. Gothamites are among them.] It'll be quick, Steph, I just really hate how this tank feels so cold.

[ She actually snorts a laugh at the image of him knocking an open backpack into a fountain. He wasn't usually that clumsy.

She glances around the room before pulling off the shirt, revealing the plain white tank-top underneath. She needs something between her skin and the staff slung over her back, after all, if she wanted to keep it hidden. She grabs the thing and its makeshift holster off before handing him the shirt, and hides it under her butt when she sits down.

Naturally she only remembers after the fact that the tank displays all of her scars, still new and puffy despite the mysterious healing she got before arriving. Trying to hide so much from so many people, those slipped through the cracks. There are so many more than she's ever had before. She looks away and does her best to move further away from him without seeming to. Hopefully he'll think she's just getting comfortable in her chair. ]

Don't worry about it. It's my least favorite top anyway. I hate being so monochrome all the time.

Steph.

[That's alarm, or maybe a warning, though Tim doesn't know who it would hypothetically be aimed at. He's holding onto the bowl and he'd thought to turn his head as she pulled the scrub top off. Habits, and all. He'd still caught something unsettling in his peripheral and he'd given up the pretense of offering her privacy.

He felt cold all over; that was normal, right? It wasn't anything he'd never experienced before, the way he can't will himself to look away, the way his heart seized in his chest, the dull numbness of futility.

He takes her shirt. Black. Her scars were fresh. Once upon a time he remembered they weren't so heavy on her body. The nostalgia dies, just kind of disappears.

Tim Drake hates himself, but he goes on.] Steph, what happened? [The scars could have been gotten here in the settlement and

what bullshit. He hates himself and it's familiar, and he welcomes it even if his voice gets stern in lieu of hysteric because she's making jokes about this?]

[ She doesn't look at him. She can't. She's terrified of what she might see in his face.

She wills herself not to start shaking, but it's not an easy battle. It takes her longer than is polite to come up with an answer. What is she supposed to say? "I died"? "Black Mask happened"? "More like what didn't happen amiright"? ]

I... was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

[She's going to bull him but he already knows the answer but it infuriates him all the same because hasn't he had enough of that? Of caring and then not being able to, because everyone but him decides it's all for the better, because God works in mysterious ways, because there's too many damn mistakes and not enough

she doesn't. She was. He mouths something to her or at her and it's like he's back in those-- days. Jesus. Had it really just been a handful of days? And he'd been running on empty, but always just running, except to where he should have and his dad

his dad

and] Okay.

[Not "okay", not ever okay, and the swirl of rage is almost enough to knock the wind out of him. He stares at the floor, because the fire is... too much (it's so stupid, Drake, get your shit together). It hurts to breathe, because he feels hot behind the eyes and he has, simultaneously, no right and every right to it. "I'm sorry"? What kind of moron would

he presses a hand to his face, heel to the bridge of his nose, and grits his teeth against saying something that could possibly make this reaction any worse.] That was a few years ago. [Near-monotone again, because despite the surge of hate in him he can't be anything but detached. He states a fact. And he's sorry. And he hates not being quite human anymore.]

[ She closes her eyes and tries to breath. It isn't easy. Her hands clench tight around her soup bowl, all but forgotten in her lap.

Years ago. She was right. She was right, and he knows, and her being here and alive only complicates things for him. She wishes she could run again, but this time in a straight line, all the way across the island to god knows where, not stopping until she was too tired to move. Now she does start to shake, and focuses her energy instead on the effort not to cry.

She forces the words out, hating the weakness and fear in her voice. ]

Do you... know how it happened? Why it happened?

[He sets his own bowl of hot soup on the floor, under his chair. It gives him an excuse to fidget, to move, to feel like he has some chance of scratching that burning itch under his skin. The movement is robotic and it seems to Tim like he could almost watch himself do it, because when he reclines on the chair again and runs a hand absently through Steph's black top, he's pretty sure he can't feel anything.

It's like he has one of those bone-chilling, aching cold fits that accompany high, delirious fevers. He knows that's not the case. But it feels like it. And he remembers the feeling, because it hasn't let him sleep for the past years.

He wonders who's the biggest flight risk: Stephanie or himself. But he's always been a coward when it came to

this.

He stretches his hand out, holding the shirt back to Steph. He can deal with cold. He's spent a lifetime learning how to move despite being frozen by horror.

He should have been there for her. Instead he was with his dad. (Should he even feel guilty about that? About choosing relationship that never could have amounted to anything, instead of the one that never did?)] I don't think it's fair to actually say.

[He wants to avoid her, but stupid self has his eyes locked on her face. They're blank. His eyes are blank. He's-- learned how to do that, too. It's better than giving in to the horror, even if he just sounds-- cold.] Considering I may know more than you do. [No wonder she fucking left.]

[ She opens her eyes again when she hears him move, turning just enough to see the motion without having to see his face. She stares at the shirt for a long while, unable to make herself move. She's standing on a razor's edge, and she can feel it moving under her but she still doesn't know which way she'll fall.

It would be easier if he just came out and said it. 'It was your fault, and I can't forgive you, and we shouldn't talk.' Tumbling into that bottomless pit would be better than this... anticipation.

Finally she reaches to take the shirt back with hands that shake. She leaves it clutched in one hand on her knee, staring at the fabric and willing her brain to work faster. It's been too long since she said something, too long to be anything but awkward torture.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a squeak. She closes it, swallows, and tries again. ]

I'm sorry.

[ It comes out as a whisper. Now she does start to cry, and she's learned from experience that once it starts there's not really anything she can do to make it stop. ]

I'm sorry. I-- Nobody was supposed to get hurt.

[ It's too much. She can't break down in front of Tim, not about this. Not with him sounding so cold. Her body starts to function again as she gets to her feet, setting the bowl of stew down in her chair and picking up the staff. When she speaks again her voice is at least a little stronger, though she's turned all the way away from him. ]

There's nothing I can tell you about this place you couldn't hear from someone else. I'll stop bothering you.

[What? No, no he hadn't meant for her to

but of course she would, because he's a jackass, and won't somebody please explain to him when, exactly, he got worse than Bruce? At being normal? At being anything other than a robot who sees suspicion and lies and fault. There's a monster in his stomach. It pulls just under his skin.

Stephanie is crying, and Tim sighs.] Steph... [And he doesn't have a damn thing to say. "Just another way to let her down", isn't that what he had told Bruce at her funeral? He hadn't cried then either, and the mallet that hits his chest, his heart, feels like it cut more than bruised.

Tim stays sitting, because he can't... think. Of what he's doing, of what he's supposed to do next. She hadn't wanted him close when they'd-- she wanted him to forget her, and maybe that's a constant even in whatever universe they're now in.] You're not bothering me. [Even if he sounds like he's forced that out through grit teeth but it's either that or

but he's honest, and when has that ever gotten him anywhere? He'll end up alone, because he's always alone, because no one wants to die and the best way to ensure that] Steph, just. [His train of thought stops there. Tim hates himself a little more because obviously that's still somehow possible. Steph's not even looking at him, so what in the hell is he even]

You were right, I guess. [His mouth feels sour and his throat is burning. But maybe he doesn't have to be a selfish goon here. He's already seen how that plays out. So if Steph (she's stronger than he'll ever be and he wants to tell her about Batgirl and how much better she is than him now) can be confident about this (she had been confident about it in his own time, too; something that's making him feel sick and dead), he can too.

Honesty. He owes her honesty. Because she's going to leave him, and that's not new. Everyone did. It's not new. He remembers spinning her in a hug, knowing she was alive again, and then learning she always had been, she'd just never wanted] I wouldn't be good company. [No one wanted him. Damian didn't have to spit it at him; the fact was tangible. She deserved more than-- someone who wouldn't dare leave his chair. For instance.

But he's sorry. And thanks for the help.

And please don't go.

But Tim does what Tim does best, and grimaces and takes the fault and stays quiet. He wonders how she built the staff, wonders just how functional it is. Thinks, he has a new project, because he'll be damned if he dies of-- suffocating heartbreak, for instance.]

[ The sound of her name is the only thing keeping her from running away right now. Whatever he has to say to her, she has to hear it. She's earned any and every rebuke, she has no right to run away from them.

But rebuke isn't what comes. It isn't exactly forgiveness, either, though. She sniffles, and wipes a few tears from her face. They'll make it hard to talk. ]

You don't have to do that, spare my feelings. I get it, if you--

[ She chokes on the words. If he hates her now, she can't say it. ]

I haven't exactly been great company either, since I. You know. Died.

You don't.

[He's breaking rules, here. Distraught, distressed, desperate-- he's not stupid. He's aware he's doing something he shouldn't, but that's been the point of Red Robin since the beginning of it all.

His eyes had gone wide at that, fearful but not anything less than bone-tired. The world has really screwed them all over, right?

Welcome to Club Robin.

Christ, she didn't deserve to think--

he wants to hurl, because he knows what her last memories must have been. So he stares dumbly, numbly at the fire ahead and breathes to counts of four. Then three. Then he squares his jaw and lifts his head and Steph is still there.

He doesn't want to run her off.] You don't die, Stephanie. [The funeral had swam in his head for weeks, and Dana would bring her up out of the blue in her broken rambling and Tim would always be so hurt by] You're Batgirl, actually. It's a good look on you. [So he breaks rules and he omits truths, but he's being honest and she's still there and if she stays a second more he might just] Your costume's eggplant, because of course it is. [He wishes his voice would waver, just a bit. It doesn't. He's experienced with-- this.]

[ You don't die. That stops her short. Her brain comes to a full stop, taking his words in but failing utterly to process any of them.

She doesn't die? ]

What?

[ She finally turns to face him, stunned confusion the only expression left on her face. The tears keep falling, of course. She has far too many of them and has let out far too few. She's numb most days, getting by without feeling much of anything. ]

But... how? I was bleeding out. I remember bleeding out.

[ She's pretty sure she couldn't have made it out of the building like that. ]

[He'll barf, but not now.

He can't promise he didn't feel something rise up in his throat, though, and suddenly he has an excuse for the sour, dry taste in his mouth.

Tim half-wonders if she knows how much he wants to claw at himself right now, because his skin doesn't feel like his own, it doesn't feel comfortable to him, he can't tolerate it right now.] It was bad.

[She'll hate him for that, and Tim figures he'd be fine with it, because if someone ever flat-out told him his life had been "bad" he can't be sure he wouldn't want to drive a knife through them.

He doesn't notice the tremors in his hands, because why would he? He can't process the reality of their lives on a good day and no, he really isn't cut out for this job, he guesses. It makes him feel like he's swallowed cement. That's how heavy that lump feels.] But Leslie helped.

[ 'Bad' feels like an understatement. She was healed when she came here and it's still bad. But she can see the tremor in his hand, even if he can't. She tries to imagine what it would have looked like, what it would have felt like.

She swallows thickly and rubs at one wrist. They still ache, a little. With how messed up her hands got she's surprised she could ever use them again. She stares at the scars there, for something to look at. ]

How did she...

[ No, that's not the right question. She swallows once more and tries again. ]

I didn't think anyone was looking.

[ She'd convinced herself- let herself be convinced- that she was abandoned, forgotten. That when she died it was alone and unmissed. ]

[At some point in his wandering, Tim's probably going to pass by house number 9, a little red house with a not-so-little Red Hood lurking on the porch. He's perched on the porch railing, back to the corner post, wearing teal scrubs and a sullen scowl as he sits, observing anyone who happens to be in the area.

Jason doesn't immediately seem to recognize Tim - he's a few years older than the last version he crossed paths with, and he hadn't actually taken much time to get to know Tim before he was spirited off to this village. Jason likewise may appear a bit younger than the one Tim most recently dealt with, and for once, he doesn't appear to be looking for a fight.]

[For so many people to be living here, there had to be a steady enough source of supplies and that included tools. But Tim's beginning to figure such luxuries were well guarded.

He is, actually, already beginning to resent being so... late. Was that the word? He's certainly new, though he hasn't gotten around to asking for timeframes yet. Maybe if he'd woken up twenty months earlier he could have made off with the good loot. Because apparently he's no longer so gung-ho against the primal law that is "finders keepers". He stops to adjust his backpack, as if the thought made him want to secure it, and he just so happened to have that clear line of sight to house number 9 and to Jason Todd (because Tim made a career out of knowing that man as a kid and because he has too many scars as a clear consequence of that). That Jason is younger doesn't seem to click yet, not the way it instantly had with Stephanie.

Tim wonders what weapons Jason had made off with, or what he's fashioned.

He readies himself to sprint.]

You know, that's almost picturesque. All you're missing is the rocking chair and corn pipe.

[Aha. Tim opens his mouth, and that's unmistakable, instantly pushing the puzzle pieces into place in Jason's mind as to his identity. His head tips slightly to one side as he sizes Tim up from a distance, trying to decide if his banter is generalized or a more Jason-specific commentary, but Jason otherwise doesn't budge from his perch on the porch.]

Yeah, funny thing about smoking, [he deadpans,] it'll kill you.

[And he's already been killed once. That's it, that's the joke.

There's absolutely no reason for Jason to expect that Tim knows him - after all, he didn't know who Tim was until the boy introduced himself in Wonderland, and that had been a minor disaster. And they can verbally dance around each other all day with vague snarking, but Jason doesn't really have the patience for it. He decides to cut straight to the chase.]

Tim, right?

[Steph had been right. Talking from a distance was awkward. That line of thought made Tim pause-- and he's not nearly stupid or suicidal enough to jaunt up to good ol' Red Hood and offer a handshake for truce. He wonders what info Jason's gotten from him from that not-too-subtle size-up. Decides he seriously doesn't care

because there's warning bells a-ringin', you know?] The one and only. [If they're doing the self-depreciating shtick, then he can parry. (But it's most definitely not what they're doing, not what they should be doing.)

What should they be doing? Tim frowns- a practiced, common thing.] But you knew that, and I'm not going to entertain any games. How much information do you have on this place?

Edited 2018-08-29 02:38 (UTC)

[Well, this is a hell of a lot different from the kid who approached him, talking about mutual friends like it was a way into Jason's social circle (another joke, Jason has no social circle to enter, ba-dum tsh). Jason laughs dryly, almost under his breath, and squints out at the horizon.]

Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're not as one-and-only as you think.

[Jason doesn't even have to ask to know this is an entirely different Tim Drake. He wonders briefly what the Jason Todd he knows is like, if he's more like the other Jason he met, the one with the brand on his face, the one who lived -

He really hates this multiverse bullshit. Jason sighs, folds his arms across his chest, shrugs lightly.]

What makes you think I have information on this place?

[Kat's house is the last house between the village and the boat house.

Thanks to the encroaching heat, the windows on the first floor remain open in order to create a cross flow. It isn't a perfect solution against the humidity but it helps Kat sleep and she enjoys listening to the soft sounds of the night. It isn't like the city, which took some time to get used too, but it was nice.

It's the silence that makes her realize that someone has walked past the house, heading towards the outskirts of the village. Birds, bugs and nocturnal animals grow silent as Tim passes through and then resume their usual sounds.

It's dangerous to go walking around at night but Kat's curious and unable to go back to sleep.

She catches up to Tim closer to the boat house and makes a point not to quiet her approach.] Hey, what are you doing out so late? [She's not sure if there even are boats in the boat house.]

[You know what sucks about this place (besides everything?)? The lack of light. There's no working street lamps (or even... installed street lamps) and even torches seem to be only used on the down-low. He'd kind of kill for a lighter right now, is what he's saying, bringing the map of this stretch of land up in his head as he steps careful.

Last thing he wants is a rolled ankle.

Well-- no. Last thing he wants is to be idle, hence his willingness to risk a rolled ankle.

He perks up and tunes in to the sounds of someone approaching, not overly wired or spooked. He turns to the lady, and as a response he nods to the boat house just ahead.] I don't think I've heard anything about a curfew. [Which may sound snarky, and Tim doesn't mean to be snarky, to he continues in a much more mild voice.] So I decided why not check out what this place looks like after-hours, you know?

There isn't but it isn't safe either. [Kat dips her fingers into her pocket and pulls out a thin candle and a match. It takes her a moment or two to light the wick and illuminate the surrounding area in a gentle halo of light.] I don't have many candles and I'm sure your eyes have adjusted to the moon light but take this. It'll help you if you want to check out the boat house.

[It'll take more than a snarky sounding reply for Kat to be deterred. She's used to Vergil's gruff and Dante's advances and has ignored it all. There is very little that fazes her and they generally come down to life or death situations.]

Would you like some company?

[It isn't her plan, hadn't been her plan, but she's awake now and by giving Tim her candle, there is very little she can do. This world isn't like the city where there is enough light pollution to read by and she won't risk straining her eyes just because she can't sleep.]

Frank is a hulking presence, silent but easily spotted, especially with two large dogs flanking him on this particular day. One is a weary-looking black and tan bloodhound who brays to announce Tim's arrival to the village. The other is a much more excitable German shepherd in all black and she immediately darts forward to start licking fountain water off the man's hands.

"Nope," he says on a soft sigh, not trying to approach himself. Aurora can do the greeting for him, after all. The bearded man isn't wearing scrubs but a teal sweatshirt, ill-fitting jeans and, even more curiously, teal Jordans. His communicator matches Tim's but is, of course, teal as well and tied securely around the opposite wrist is a hand-braided leather bracelet. "This is pretty much Tuesday for us." The young man doesn't seem overly panicked or concerned, but he'll hang around a few minutes to see if that changes.

[The hound's deep voice is what makes Tim's head shoot up. It isn't a startle, it's straight-up recognition and it's as jerky and guilty as can be expected. Not his proudest moment. Blue eyes land on Frank only after taking stock of both dogs (the faster, more immediate concerns) and Tim's expression lands somewhere between confused and challenging. He tightens the grip on his backpack, like this was Germany all over again.

Then there's a dog licking his hand that'd been hanging loose and Tim can't remember the last time he was on good terms with a dog. He remembers Cardigan. The pug. And he relaxes and smiles (at the dog, as he reaches out to bury a hand in its scruff) and he wonders what the fuck is going on.

He turns back to the man.] I like your... shoes.

[Okay. Tuesday. Tim turns to glance back at the dang fountain.] I tried to find a latch or door or anything under there. I couldn't see anything. And I don't think I was thrown in. [But he wasn't exactly conscious.] Was I thrown in?

[ frank buries his empathy for the young man's upset, trying to remind himself for the millionth time he isn't responsible for anyone here, new arrivals included. the compliment gets a tiny nod in thanks and then he's glancing at the fountain at tim's inquiry. he's not really sure how to answer that truthfully. ]

Your guess is as good as mine. [ aurora yaps and nudges in against tim's side, taking all the opportunity for attention she can while aretha sits dutifully by frank's leg to await further instruction. ] Everyone shows up that way.

[If nothing else, Jean-Luc absolutely looks like he knows what he's doing. Part of this is on account of the fact that he has been in the village for more than a year by now, but even apart from that there's a sort of gravitas to him. A sense that he's someone who can be trusted, who's used to making sure that they know as much of a situation as it's possible to know.

And maybe also the fact that he generally looks vaguely parental, although this may or not help with regards to whatever question Tim might happen to have in mind. Still, he absolutely notices Tim approaching as he helps clear away the dishes after lunch one day.]

May I help you?

[The question is gentle. Curious, rather than dismissive, and his expression backs that up.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

young, dumb, & broke

ARRIVAL- POLICE STATION YO

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settling; housing.

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Settling In (A few days after Arrival)

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taking fountain since no one else did

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Settling in - Inn