young, dumb, & broke

[ployboy]

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.]

Comments

[ployboy]

[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?

[oorah]

[ 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.