i. It might have been different if Tim had laid eyes on the League's diplomat first—her dark hair so unlike his mother's bronze curls and her voice louder than any Tim had ever heard. But never harsh. He may have found himself searching for her face in every crowd and making himself use speech to persuade others to do great things.

If it had been one of the runners Tim had met at the start, Tim can't imagine how he would have reacted. Those fluttering patterns of speech, and Tim wouldn't have even dared to lay a hand on them, being too stunned to be threatened by their always sudden appearance. That first time—the real one—had caught him with something to prove and someone to protect. Still, they moved faster than thought and could only be caught by instinct alone. Perhaps Tim would have lived the rest of his days ready to bolt at anything if any one of the runners had been his first encounter.

Had the Captain been in his true form that day, perhaps Tim's nights would be stricken with imaginings, dark noises and his own heart beating as if to spur on the morning's light. He understands fear now, but through other meetings.

And had Tim Drake run into…well, they were something else that defied words. From a land farther than any ocean, Kon-El would eventually be introduced to the willful sailor named Tim. But the boy can't imagine how his life would be different if it became his first meeting. The first impression means everything, and Kon-El's is both something Tim would and would not change if he could.

No. Tim met Dick first. And that moment never leaves him.

The water is cold and salt burns the cuts down his arm. He's shredded the skin and hasn't yet looked to see if the rope had revealed bone from when he had been dragged out into the stormy sea. He coughs and knows that guessing by pain alone won't help him. He's in shock and the water stings his eyes and his lungs. He's blind and alone with the thoughts of how his life could have been.

Well, blind, yes. But not alone. Never. He reminds himself that this is all in the name of the good fight and lets his arms numbly tread in the water. If he holds on, he'll have some answers later to feed to the doubt. The feelings alone could drown him and he doesn't want to be that weak. He can't afford to be that person, the one who dies at the first available chance.

This is maybe the tenth, though. All the fighting and the enemies. His capture and daring escape. It's all like a book he read once when he was learning to read. Those tales his father made up about his sea-faring days, though even those couldn't have lured the boy to the water's edge.

Dick.

Tim splutters again as a wave he hadn't even heard batters him under, but his arms are true and he's once more cold-faced and listening senselessly to the air. Dick could do this, and Dick's not like the others.

Every blow from the wooden sword and each angry shout from Wayne, telling him that he has to be better; stronger than the others. That he has nothing to fall back on. That nobody will save him because that is not their job.

Their job is to fight the good fight, but if Tim thinks back on it he doesn't have a hard time inventing the idea of Wally pulling Dick from danger, or Bart plucking the biographer Clark from a fray. It's just him who has no chance: the wine-seller's son with no real explanation as to why he should come along.

Another wave tosses him like the small speck that he is on the ocean. There's no human cry so Tim trusts that his assailants have left him for dead. Good news, if it didn't damn him to the sea. He tries to find any chance he can to lie back to gasp, the stress of his engagement finally creeping up on him. He truly is by himself and he doesn't want to blame the Captain for this.

They needed someone undercover. Someone who wouldn't be recognized, without so much skill that he would stand out, only…

Tim seethes, both angry that Bruce had agreed and mad at himself for so eagerly needing the approval. And…shamed. Because Dick could have succeeded, if only he were not the popular ward of the merchant Bruce Wayne.

"It's too late for regrets, it's too late, it's too late…" he gasps, more for himself. Crying for help is useless for the body of water is large and his so small. He doesn't even think his voice could carry any length of distance.

He just needs to keep floating.

For as long as it takes.

And as if by some miracle, the choppy, night waters shine under a momentarily revealed moon and a man in a crow's nest is too afraid to be sleeping on his watch. A cry is raised and as Tim starts to wonder if he's so disillusioned that he's hearing the calls of ghosts on the water, a man in thick uniform is stepping up to peer at the sea with his binoculars.

The moon uncovering the lost boy at sea shines off of the shipmaster's smooth head.

"There's treasure if you know how to look," grins the man. "Bring the person aboard."

And his men act without delay, already knowing the scorn of Sir Alexander Luthor.

♠