When one thinks "I must get a long-term babysitter for my young, impressionable child," it usually involves rigorous searching and screening for just the right person capable of handling the responsibility. In the end, this caretaker might throw on a movie, make lunch, and call it quits.
"You want to stab them here." Tim's responsible babysitter draws a small circle on a human anatomy diagram. "If you're even a little off, the blood will drain too quickly."
"Is it because of the arteries over here?" Young, impressionable Tim asks while pointing to another part of the diagram.
"Indeed," Tim's babysitter narrows his one eye in something like pride. "Unlike your parents, you show much promise."
"Does that mean you'll show me how to use a tanto, Mr. Dosletter?" Tim asks, eyes wide and pleading.
"Only if you manage a hundred pushups this time."
For all the good intentions the Drakes had for their only son, it can be said that they have more money than sense. Hiring an assassin to watch over their child isn't too wildly out of the norm for rich Gotham socialites, but the ground rules should go beyond "don't get our son killed."
This is how Tim comes to grow up under the famed and feared Deathstroke's tutelage.
While other kids his age are learning their numbers and how to tell time, Tim is being taught how to calculate throwing distance and how long it takes to choke someone out. Other kids play on slides and jump off swings; Tim is climbing rooftops and learning how to fall and keep running.
Mr. Dosletter, the small child thinks, is absolutely amazing.
Over time, Tim learns to track, how to hide, and to build target portfolios. Combat training comes once he's able to do all his physical exercises with no problems. His excitement over learning how to fight dims a bit once it becomes apparent he has no talent for swords.
"You're better off with a bō staff." Mr. Dosletter gives his martial arts form a considering stare. "A distraction style would be good. Need to get you shuriken to use."
"I'll call mom and dad and ask for some spending money," Tim says, being careful to maintain his form. "Is it for horse-riding or painting this time?"
"Horse-riding. We used painting two days ago. Overusing an excuse with nothing to show for it makes for unbelievable lies, and when telling a lie, keep it believable."
Tim grows up under Mr. Dosletter's tender, loving care with the occasional phone call to his parents. It isn't perfect; there are times where Tim is forced to take care of himself, such as when his babysitter comes in three days late and dripping blood, or when he slips up and nearly assassinates his parents with a roller skate.
Still, his babysitter is reasonably well-adjusted despite his profession, and he makes sure Tim is too.
"It's good to have hobbies outside of the job," Mr. Dosletter tells him while handing him a camera. "Make sure it's something that you enjoy without stressing about it being successful."
"You just want me to take photos of your hits for you," Tim grumbles.
He accepts the shiny, new camera despite the way Mr. Dosletter is smirking. Tim has no desire to be anything but obedient; he has long ago learned the meaning behind the orange and black costume his babysitter sometimes wears.
"Make sure your targets don't see you. Keep—"
"—to the shadows, and don't leave a mess. Got it."
Running around Gotham at night is exhilarating enough without having to photograph future murder victims, but Tim manages it somehow. He gets a shot of three of his targets before he catches movement from underneath a nearby gargoyle.
Batman and Robin soar past, and he takes a picture before fading into the darkness.
It becomes something of a favorite pastime, Batman and Robin. Not quite to Mr. Dosletter's creepy obsession—he learned quickly to hide all pictures of the first Robin—but there's a satisfaction to getting them on camera without them knowing.
Tim's also, perhaps, just a little bit in love with the idea of being a vigilante. Not that he'd tell Mr. Dosletter that. Man seems to think Tim's on his way to being a baby assassin. Tim's pretty sure he'd rather work for the GCPD. Which, considering the state of Gotham's Police, is the last place anyone wants to work at.
(No matter how hard he tries, the assassin is never able to fully twist Tim's morals in the time left before the babysitting contract runs out.
Deathstroke doesn't understand. Just where does young Tim get his innate goodness from? His babysitter's a killer and his parents are absent, yet ruthless businessmen. There's literally no one else that interacts with the child, and cartoons can only go so far.)
Whether it's out of twisted affection or not wanting to waste talent, Mr. Dosletter forces Tim to run the rooftops of Gotham a year before the Drake's contract ends. In costume. With live weapons and a grappling hook.
"Do I really have to wear this?" Making a face, Tim holds up a black and grey suit. "Do supervillains even have sidekicks?"
"Better to get in some experience while I'm still responsible for you," Mr. Dosletter says before pulling down a mask over his white hair and scarred face. "And yes, they have apprentices."
"If Batman comes after me, I'm going to cry and point my fingers at you," Tim says resolutely.
"I have raised you well," Deathstroke says, voice drier than the desert.
The costume's voice modulator hides Tim's young, squeaky voice, but there's not much that can be done about his small figure. The moment Batman finds him wandering around the rooftops with stolen diamond bracelets on his wrists, he figures the jig is up.
"I'm actually twelve and being coerced by my babysitter. Go easy on me?" He immediately throws his hands up in surrender.
Ironically, this is what convinces Batman that he's just a small adult trying to weasel out of the consequences. Tim jumps and barely dodges the bolas aimed at his ankles.
"Who are you?" Batman growls at him.
"Never picked out a name," he says, already diving off the building.
Tim's grapple hook keeps him from becoming a pancake. He's automatically moving, swinging his legs as he's been taught without even thinking about it. Behind him, Batman gives chase, and Tim's brain is going in overdrive to figure out how to lose him.
The city lights can barely be seen in the fog that has settled over Gotham's night, and it's only subconscious memory from running these same rooftops on the regular that keep Tim from missing a foothold.
His heart is beating fast—faster than when he stole the bracelets from those mobsters—and the experience pushes him past fear into an unknown feeling. It's not until Tim is taking off his mask and hiding inside an old church filled with homeless children that he realizes he's having fun.
Tim Drake, twelve-year-old child, who can only stand stealing from criminals at the very most, is having fun running from an angry Batman. It doesn't take long to realize he's in trouble.
He puts the bracelets in the church's donation box—with a quick note of who to sell them to without getting in trouble—and goes home before he crashes from the adrenaline rush.
There's a cake waiting for him on his bedside table along with a card. The cake is plain and without icing, and there's a picture of a grim reaper using a scythe like a guitar on the cover of the card. Happy Villainy, the inside reads. A line of red X's and O's mock him beneath it.
He falls back onto his bed with a tired groan.
Even though Tim swears to never put the suit back on, it doesn't take but a single nudge from Mr. Dosletter before he is back to snatching shiny things from people who don't deserve them. It's on his third night of thieving that he gets caught.
"So what made you start the Caped Justice career?" Tim asks as he's picked up by the scruff of his neck.
Batman just grunts down at him.
"I mean, what made you lose your faith in the Normal Justice field?" Despite knowing the answer, he carefully pretends Batman isn't Bruce Wayne just like Deathstroke isn't Slade Wilson. "You could probably scare all the corrupt cops out and clean up the city that way." He points out.
Before Batman can give another non-answering grunt, knives fly out of the darkness, and Tim is thrown away before he can get hit in the crossfire.
"Deathstroke," Batman snarls.
"Oh? Seems I didn't see you there," Deathstroke's voice echoes around them with amusement.
With the Bat's attention no longer on Tim, he wastes no time throwing down a smoke bomb and hightailing it. He doesn't stop until he's safe in one of his hidey-holes and out of his suit.
("Use your enemy's weakness to your advantage. Batman doesn't kill, and that is a weakness.")
By the time he makes it back to the manor, Tim has a bruise on his neck and scratches on his hands. Mr. Dosletter takes one look at his injuries and makes him do fifty sit-ups as punishment. Tim's left alone after that with a command to "Rest and reflect."
He wakes up to a new suit hanging on the back of his bedroom door. It looks to be much higher quality with more armor padding. A small, almost ghostly-looking cape hangs from the shoulder pieces. Of course, it's hard to concentrate on the details when his eyes keep drifting to the skull mask glaring back at him.
Taped to the suit is a small note that only contains a red "X."
On Tim's bookshelves, various versions of Robin Hood and Arsène Lupin are placed next to Sherlock Holmes. The secret Batman and Robin photo albums get squished together with heist plans and a coded list of fence locations.
There may or may not be a contract made in Jack Drake's name over the research of a teleportation device stashed behind the refrigerator. It's a long-term investment.
And so begins the rise of the thief, Red X.
Gotham welcomes Red X with open arms—the normal citizens do anyway, not so much the criminals—and Tim works to give the city as much love as he's capable of by returning stolen goods or giving his hard-won score to charity.
Of course, Batman doesn't care how much good anyone other than Batman can do, so Red X finds himself on the wrong end of a batarang more than once. Their skirmishes tend to end in Red X's favor as Batman wavers between putting him down quickly and maintaining a distance in case Deathstroke pops out of the shadows like some kind of Boogeyman's Boogeyman.
Red X also uses Robin's temper to distract Batman from getting serious. They really should work on that; Robin doesn't seem to care about anything but beating in Red X's face. It's kind of fun to see how much collateral damage the older boy can cause, but that will get him in trouble when fighting against the real criminals.
(He doesn't think Poison Ivy will ever forgive Batman for the disaster that was Earth Day when Robin got his hands on a flamethrower and tried to smoke Red X out of hiding.)
"Not afraid of child labor laws?" Red X asks as Robin goes flying into a heap of trash.
Red X only had to sidestep for Robin to go charging into an oil slick and off the building. With the way his shoulders slump ever so much, he thinks Batman is fighting the urge to facepalm.
"We operate outside of the law," Batman tells him flatly.
"So, what makes you different from me?" He asks, pointing to the bag of goodies that hangs around his belt.
"What we do benefits the city. You only seek to harm."
Batman slowly maneuvers Red X between himself and where Robin is scaling the building without a sound. Red X waits for Robin to get a solid hold on the railing before he reaches for a compartment on his belt.
"Then what if harming others benefits the city?" Red X asks pointedly before throwing down a smoke bomb.
It's not a standard one; Batman uses a clear gas mask whenever Red X is involved, so Tim's had to get creative and cash in some of his ill-gotten loot to get his hands on smoke bombs that create a mirror effect.
Just as he hoped, Robin accidentally launches himself at Batman in an effort to tackle an image of Red X, and he manages to grapple away in the confusion.
That night, Red X's laugh echoes long and hard throughout the city.
Heroes and criminals alike hate Red X for stealing from the evil and giving to the poor, so it's only natural that he angers the powerful players one too many times. This is how he gets handcuffed to Robin with a bomb ticking down on their wrists.
"I hate you," Robin snaps out.
Despite the sheer rage radiating from his skin, Robin keeps his wrist steady while Red X attempts to disarm the bomb with a bladed screwdriver.
"Love you too," Red X says absentmindedly.
He's got one minute and twenty seconds before a frantic Batman flies onto the scene, but they only have fifty seconds before they get turned into mush.
"So does fighting bad guys make you feel better, or does it only keep you angry?" Red X asks while trying to remember if he needs to cut the south wire or the slightly south wire.
"Like I'm going to give you more ammunition to use against me," Robin scoffs.
"Well, you don't need to answer me. You feel what you feel, and you have a right to your anger," Red X mindlessly says. "Just keep in mind to treat the cause not the symptom."
A quick breath and a silent prayer, and he cuts through the slightly south wire. The bomb's clock stops, and Red X slumps in relief. Had he been wrong, he has no doubt Deathstroke would bring him back from the dead only to kill him again for making the assassin fail a contract.
Robin wastes no time slamming a birdarang into the lock of the cuffs and breaking it open. They step away from each other stiffly.
"So," Red X begins, eyeing the tunnel behind Robin.
"So," Robin scowls, remaining in front of the only means of escaping the room.
Having been caught in the middle of one of Penguin's sewer lairs, Red X can't say he blames Robin for wanting to take the chance to capture the mysterious Red X and redeem himself to Batman. Thing is, Tim is allergic to Arkham and disappointing his parents, who still think he's a budding genius CEO.
"The jewels in these crates are a fake, I can't help the starving orphans tonight, and I'm tired," Red X eventually sighs. "Can we not?"
Robin stares him down, and with how tense his shoulders are, Red X believes the only way this will end is in a fight. To his surprise, Robin rolls a shoulder and looks away.
"Fine. Answer my question first," Robin says. "Why do you rob from villains?"
"Because I didn't want to harm innocent people," Red X says.
Robin gives a short, terse nod before stepping to the side. Red X gives him a tired wave and disappears down the tunnel with silent steps. He takes care to avoid the eavesdropping Batman by squeezing through a small maintenance hatch.
He's not stupid; just because Robin let him go doesn't mean Batman will.
From there, it's only a matter of finding a safe place to change clothes. Red X steps into a pigeon coop, and an exhausted and filthy Tim Drake steps out. He only realizes that he's subconsciously stuffed a pigeon into his hoodie once he's almost down the fire escape and his pocket begins to wiggle.
"Sorry, little guy," he apologizes to the pigeon before putting it back into its coop.
Tim goes home to a quiet and lonely manor, and not for the first time, wonders what it'd be like to stand beside the heroes.