Gala's; Not the Worst Place for a Blackout, but probably up There.
..
It's hysteria, I think. That's what it looks like if you didn't know what was happening.
..
The evening hadn't started with terror. In fact, it began with dancing. A golden room and a thousand bodies, but most of them were living. Some, he couldn't vouch for in good conscience. A hundred people roamed in black suits, but not the sort that had 'nefarious plan' stitched into the lining.
Tim felt rested.
Well, no, not exactly, but something in that neighbourhood. Or maybe a mini replica of that neighbourhood. A postcard of a mini replica? Between planning contingencies for the worst case scenarios, sleep had evaded him, but the scraps of scattered hours he'd gathered on the plane and since had him more rested than he had been in a while.
Which was greatly appreciated in the face of cautiously chatty aristocrats that pried wealthy fingers into his privacy. When he'd tuckered his persona out, he stuck to Bruce, whose grandiose laughter did wonders at blocking unwanted attention by drawing it to himself like a flame.
"Sagisawa-san, so good to see you!"
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Wayne. How's your health?"
Bruce laughed, deep and jovial and instantly blending with the bustle of the busy gala, "The kids keep me on my toes," the smile of his business persona was broad, and he made ample use of vocal regions that were in danger of being atrophied back in Gotham, "they're growing fast. I hardly have time to think."
Another mustachioed chuckle arose from deep in the businessman's chest, "Isn't it for the better, Mr. Wayne? No more injuries from sand-tobogganing the Serengeti."
Another laugh sprinkled forth. "It's off the table for now," and Bruce's smile dimpled the corners of his cheeks, as if he'd actually let himself get hurt in the Serengeti. He placed a hand on Tim's shoulder, squeezing lightly after a time of socially acceptable airiness, "the kids need me here. There's much I need teach them, and even more that they teach me."
Sagisawa pretended to consider this and Tim took his cue to join in, rousing his mask once more for a final appearance.
He grinned sheepishly at the Japanese businessman and his moustache. "Evening, Sagisawa-san," he chirped from beside his guardian, non-alcoholic champagne in one hand and police broadcasts feeding through his concealed Bluetooth, "It's an honour to be here."
Gestures made with his arms were every bit as excited as he wasn't. Exaggerated glances at his surroundings showed bigwigs in fancy suits with equally fancy drinks. Further down his line of sight was a cautiously-regular young man with stalagmite hair -he'd call him Spike for now- and his bald friend in waiter dregs whose gaze lingered too long in Sagisawa's direction to be strictly casual. They eyed the attendees suspiciously, bodyguards probably.
The businessman awarded him a smile and a curt nod. "Timothy," he said, looking between he and Bruce, "the pleasure's all mine. This company's enjoyed their partnership with Wayne Enterprises."
"We feel the same way, Sagisawa-san. You've taken such good care of us over the years, we can only hope to return the favour."
A twinkle shone in Sagisawa's eyes. He turned to Bruce and made a slight nod at Tim with a chortle most conspiratory, "You've done well with him."
Bruce's grin was practiced but kept in place even as Sagisawa spoke rapidly, boxing Tim out in a fluid motion. Tim's matching piece faded to a disimpassioned line as Bruce was lead to distant lands of schmoozing and investments and transfers of company shares. The bluetooth chattered loudly in their absence. Highlights consisted of a single-man BabyMetal karaoke concert and little else of concern, a slow night in busy Tokyo.
Now, it's not like he'd expected trouble to cascade through the ceiling -okay, okay, maybe he had, a little- but something about the setting prickled at his skin, stopped him from melting to the sound of the live jazz band. Call it instincts. He hadn't had a 'vacation' in years and the last he could remember involved an army of radioactive botany. At best the excursion was a business trip; they'd be back in Gotham by Saturday night assuming there were no last-minute assassination attempts or coup's stalling them.
Spike's friend -Sid's a good name, right?- jaunted in his direction, weaving through bodices and tuxedo tails toward the dark coloured room Sagisawa had escaped to. The chocolate cake on his tray was a dream though, so Tim helped himself to another while the pseudo-waiter trudged away and after his boss. The tiny mic he planted on his shirt was just an added bonus.
Jostling bodies moved him this way and that, and the tide told tales as he ventured to lands unknown- from someone's Liberian baby ('I'm more of an Angelina Jolie than a Bruce Wayne,' she joked), to another's meager Venetian birthday. Mitzi was spilling some juicy deets before being carted away by a lady with a feathered boa, rendering Tatiana's Tahiti tryst a mystery for another event.
Politics interspersed with polite business talk and were collectively drowned out by crooning, soft and lyrical, and harsh chatter. Late-night speeding aside, the bluetooth remained relatively mum. Okay, maybe he was a little disappointed.
His travels brought him to the edge of the hall where a gaggle of young social elites gathered around an abstract painting. In the centre, a boy his age with golden hair and a magnificent grin riled about a particular weekend in Tahiti with more than just a few amendments. Raging sunburn had apparently morphed into a dusty tan, but it remained peculiarly absent on his skin.
The ballroom was all windows, spiderwebbed with ornate pillars and intense lighting on the paintings that bordered the walls. All originals, flaunted the venue's owner earlier in the evening, I take joy in seeing my world filled with art. Which was totally a villain thing to say, Tim thought dryly, and in a minute he'd imagined him in a garish mask, carbon-freezing his guests into modern art pieces. Some attendees seemed already there.
The particularly smug specimen to his left, for example, would have been the first to go. Tim shifted focus and listened to the less-animated conversation, "And then he saw the Birdman, I bet," he crowed with all the demeaning confidence of an emperor without clothes.
Another next to him shivered in her fairy lace gown, "Don't-," her eyes darted fearfully about the fancy suits and heels, "What if- You don't want-."
The friend closest them, her smile a taut line dancing on unpleasant, rubbed at her short cardigan piece. "Relax," she said with a glaze of bland honey on her words, "You'd have to be dying to see the Birdmen."
"Men?" the lace girl stuttered, "Like, more than one?"
"I heard there're six."
"I heard there's six hundred."
They continued to hum in conspiratorial tones, their banter drawing the attention of others nearby that rolled their eyes with exaggerated flair. Between bemused sips of not-champagne bubbly-stuff, Tim wondered how much of the account was actual truth. He surveyed the ballroom once more from his new area, took in the swarovski everything and penguin suits.
The feeling returned with a vengeance, his partner in crime, an apprehension that led his better judgement. People swayed and music played and an intoxicating glee permeated the room. Tim frowned into his glass; he simply didn't drink.
..
It was supposedly private, a 'simple' gathering among partners, family, and friends to commemorate the New Year, which by definition alone meant it wouldn't be simple at all. Sagisawa's silence had persisted through the details of his eldest sons passing and had extended to the party at present.
Hell, information on the venue itself hadn't reached Wayne Ent. till weeks before the scheduled date, and the culprit in that fiasco was largely the business proceedings that'd been lined up and a very persistent courier quite intent on becoming a pain in the ass to get a solid commitment.
In the face of apparent secrecy the media had come in swarms to answer questions unasked. Cautionary police cars were almost indistinguishable from the press vehicles that lined Saitou Boulevard, overworked reporters likely trying to glean information from (very) inebriated guests. Tim wished them luck but pitied exactly none of them.
Fixtures below the uppermost floor betrayed only the slightest of light, so the expanse of hallways was bathed in dark olive tones. Although the obvious oversight of possible-attacks manifested in an appalling absence of crannies and nooks in the architecture (perish the thought that purposefully-obscuring, dark corners be optional outside of Gotham), he appreciated the shift from the blinding chandeliers.
The fourth level seemed purposed only for business; most doors were locked, many he'd passed by during the afternoon's meetings. The fans and radiators maintained a quiet buzz, low and disarming. Despite this, a diligent unease continued to whittle at his nerves. A nagging feeling crept along with him even as he traversed the long, open hallway to the more private lounge areas.
He had to thank Bruce for training the anxiety that coursed through his veins, that sharpened his senses till they were prone and watching, waiting. It was how he saw the body around the corner before he'd even rounded the turn and narrowly avoided ramming headfirst into five-foot-something of wiry skin and penguinsuit.
He recognized the curls before the nose, then registered the previously obscured eyes. The glasses were gone but it was very much still the person from the elevator ride up. "Oh!" came the voice, pitched high by surprise, "I didn't expect anyone else here, I'm sorry." Tim's sentiments echoed back to him; the elevators had been programmed to shuttle only to designated floors. The ballroom on the uppermost floor, the entry at the lowest level, and the lounge on floor three. But there stood the son of their host, the living brother, Rei Sagisawa, who'd successfully ghosted the majority of the evening-had done so for much of the last year, actually.
Tim allowed himself a look of shock, "Hi! Sorry," his voice kept a tolerable frantic, "I was just looking around, needed some extra space, you know?" As Tim Drake-Wayne, he was relatively new to the Gala spotlight, especially to be invited as a guest and not a begrudging plus-one. His civilian acting was getting better-
-Which was weird to think about. When had that switch happened?
For now, the curly-haired heir mirrored his grin, standing all too naturally for someone who'd been interrupted in a seemingly abandoned area. The citylight from the wide-pane window bathed the room in a light blue glow, disturbingly serene. The feeling again gnawed at the hairs of his neck, drawing his attention till all else seemed scarce.
"Yeah, I understand," the heir hummed, tossing loose curls over his shoulder, "It gets a little much sometimes."
Tim nodded emphatically, the feeling not entirely lost on him though he doubted they shared the same meaning of 'much'. Probably a few less stab wounds in the young Sagisawa's definition. "I'm Tim, by the way," and as he stretched out his hand he could already hear Alfred's morose commentary on his manners thrumming in the back of his head, "Tim Drake-Wayne."
The fingers that closed around his were icy, and the other gave his hand a firm shake before saying, "Rei Sagisawa. Rei."
A pause settled between them. The heir spared him a smile, a beautiful thing that showed all his teeth and pinched his cheeks. Tim realised he was staring a half-second after he'd been at it too long and coughed, looking instead at the purposefully antique furniture and returning his hand to his pocket.
"Heading back to the party?" he ventured, unwilling to dwell in the dripping silence. He watched the way thin lips quirked downwards around the word 'no'. Fingers twitched slightly at his sides-a tension that was mirrored in the clench of his jaw. The rise of his shoulders was defensive. He was waiting for something. Tim feigned the appropriate surprise, "You're just staying here?" he asked, as though discrete suspicion hadn't snaked its way to the trenches of his mind.
Laughing lightly, in a way that made wavy hair shake, the heir stepped aside and gestured to the furniture strewn about the room, "I was just leaving," he said, his voice an airy thing.
Which might've been more suitable if he hadn't collapsed immediately thereafter.
..
In Gotham, "I'm okay" meant anything from, I spilled my coffee and my day's been a wreck, or, I'm in serious trouble with my family slash the mafia slash insert upstart gang slash crime boss of the week and I am anything but fine thanks for asking, or, I'm literally dying but I don't want those to be my last words, to, most rarely, the actual truth. His handy-dandy copy of Reading Between the Lines for Dummies and Gothamites indicated that when people doubled over in dark rooms, it was advisable to stay until they recovered. (In-advisable, in the Gothamite section).
Contributions from the Dummies portion listed possible ailments and their respective treatments. The Gothamite one snarked that they'd be dead before dawn, but instructed on how to make a gas mask out of a shoe and t-shirt along with which breaker boxes actually housed antidotes for the usual suspects.
Tim found on occasion that he was likely a blend of the two.
His reflexes, prone and wired by inactivity and that burning apprehension, had him at the heir's side when his knees had first began to buckle. Synapses in his mind worked, already trying to detect a cause; there didn't seem to be any outside influence. No blood spots or punctures that he could tell, though between the layers of Rei's hood he mightn't be able to spot a thin dart. His eyes trained on the huddled form with cool appraisal. "I'm fine," he'd said, "I'm just leaving." Sagisawa's son was an option B kind of person, it seemed. Maybe a preventable option C.
A nail of regret scraped at his stomach in tandem with an offhanded 'about time'. He banished both, donning a pseudo-placidity that kept conveniently at the ready for times such as these. His attention returned to the collapsed heir.
Rei remained hunched slightly forward in the shade between ottomans. His hair fell around his face, obscuring it with a tangle of tresses. Trembling lips moulded around words unvoiced, so slight they might've been swallowed by the dark. Tim read the words like they were on billboards. It's here, they screamed in deafening silence, It's here.
A chill grazed the back of his neck and Tim felt the icy pinpricks on him despite the heavy fabric of his blazer. Paranoia giggled from the darker crevices of the room. The feeling gnawed at his nerves with renewed teeth. Who is? he thought, his mind alert.
Tim rubbed Rei's arm, said his name like summoning storms. If they were being targeted then they needed to move. Escape would be easier if the heir was at least half lucid; the deadweight and restricted access, because technically speaking they weren't supposed to be here what, boded ill for scaling the stairs if he needed fend off a repeat-attacker.
It took three calls for light eyes to snap on him and away from the glass window. Meanwhile, his mind dovetailed between keeping watch of their surroundings and the symptoms of the trembling form in his arms. Pupils were dilated to saucers, a thin perspiration sheened in blue on his skin. Another part yet, in the same niggling tone as before, mulled on that million dollar question, 'Who's here?' Ignoring it, Tim righted them by using a red ottoman as leverage. Rei continued to stare forward, almost non responsive.
"Hey, no," Tim tapped a fervent beat into Rei's knee, his mind churning, What's here? Who is it? The symptoms began to overlap and the Gothamite part chirped a cheery forecast of probable demise in the heir's near future, "Rei?"
Shivers shook Rei, rolling things that seemed to jolt his senses with the fervour of an electric shock. A bony elbow crashed into Tim's sternum as Rei rose, and he coughed, feeling as though he'd been biffed by a benign sledgehammer.
"I'm fine," The heir repeated as though he hadn't been fetal minutes earlier, his smile a faltering reflection of what it had once been. One hand tensed into a ball while the other pried into the fabric of his coat, "I mustn't have taken my meds, silly me." Tim took the hollow grating that came afterwards as an impersonation of a laugh, but commended his rebound through the-ow-pain.
He regarded the slight tremble of his form, the frozen fear in his eyes, "Are you having a panic attack?" he asked, risking a short step forward.
The heir shook his head, no, his lips pursed into a thin line. His eyes made trails along the Tokyo nightlights while he inched toward the slightly ajar door. "I'm fine," came the laughing response, paired with anxious eyes and an angry brow, "Just a little slip-up."
The area below his sternum simmered with an angry pain that disrupted his thinking and Tim blinked to keep focus. He frowned, faintly recalling a silent heralding, but the words became more mottled with his every attempt. "Are you sure?" the question dissolved into the dark, caution keeping him out of sight as he rose from the carpet to look the heir in the eye, a task difficult when Rei's eyes wandered between the walls, the floors, then finally the window, "Can I call someone?"
Rei paused a moment, looking entirely sober. His eyebrows arched slightly, his features tinged with a light blue. He shook his head, his smile absolutely radiant, then left.
Tim didn't know why he let him go, couldn't place why his instincts had quieted to a hushed murmur when they should've commanded him to chase with a hellhounds ferocity. A gentle lull stalled his movements as he idly scanned the room for traps, found none, and proceeded to stare off into the periwinkle glow of the Tokyo skyline. What a lovely night it was. He almost considered returning to the bustle of the party, maybe finding a quiet corner and watching people as they waltzed the night away. Yeah, maybe, as soon as he'd finished with the thing that tickled at the back of his mind.
He frowned, drawing a blank as he scraped for some recollection of why he'd ever left the banquet. He recalled a lovely chat with Sagisawa, but-
The tickle turned into an itch that blanketed his body in an uncomfort of nervousness.
Nervousness splintered into a cold static. Focus, Tim, he willed himself, stumbling over a maze of misaligned furniture and a nebula of hazy memories, Focus!
He tried and pushed and recited, but a blurred wall obscured the conversation, the faces, the gazes-
-the tremors, the false smiles.
Tim lurched away from the clear pane as the memories pieced together, the phantom haze lifted from them. It's here, Rei's voice replayed, a stone in wreaking havoc in the pits of his stomach, It's here.
A slurred medley of shock and realisation peeled through him as the itch turned to a burn and his senses to their siren's anthem. He flew to the door, but the young heir had already vacated the premises, likely left the floor entirely. A nasty word curled at the edge of his tongue as delayed responses kicked in, spurring him forward, with a single thought,
Not. on. his. watch.