The Death of Tim Drake
Format: Comic Script
Author's note: CAP.: is an abbreviation of Caption. O.P means off-panel. Also, the slight problem of Joker being alive – let's just pretend that JJ shot him in the wrong side of the chest. He survived, got chucked in Arkham Asylum, rinse and repeat.
We open with a shot of Arkham Asylum. The house looks small compared to the vast storm that is brewing around it. The wind keens around the looming house, and trees thrash in the rain.
The first crack of lightning is a devastating flash, and as the bolt fills a single long a panel bisecting the page, we cut to a dark room inside Arkham. Light from one barred window trickles into the room, and a peal of thunder reverberates outside. A silhouetted figure is hanging from the ceiling by its wrists, seemingly unconscious.
RIDDLER: (not in sight yet) Riddle me this - what is that given one, you'll have either two or one?
Riddler's cane enters the page – it's not the curling question mark from the comics, but instead a square-like question mark (like the one from the Telltale games) that is rusted, the green paint flaking away. It looks strangely angular and awkward, as though it doesn't quite belong.
We pan away from the cane, so that the rest of Riddler comes into view. His body is emaciated, his traditionally bright costume in faded tatters, his hair long and ragged. He has shrugged a straitjacket over his shoulders in an attempt to keep himself warm. The empty sleeves flop uselessly while Riddler grips his cane with a fervour that is almost religious.
TIM: (slowly waking) Mmf…
Tim panics when he realises there is duct tape over his mouth. He begins to yank at the ropes, but Riddler raises his cane and whacks him in the upper back, the sharp corners of the question mark slicing into Tim's back. We get a sudden shot of Tim's face as his head jerks back.
TIM: Hhk!
RIDDLER: Come on, Timmy!
Riddler reaches up and rips the tape off Tim's face. Tim gasps, shocked by the sudden pain.
Riddler: What's the answer?
CAP.: (Tim's thoughts) What… what happened? My memories… they're… blurred.
Cut to a montage-type flashback – long thin panels, little snapshots of a larger scene. These are set against a monochrome panoramic shot of Arkham Asylum, so the warmer looking scenes are against this grey, looming, roiling clouds and a solid house that crouches among the spider-like trees.
We see a snapshot of James Gordon, sitting with his elbows propped on his desk. In the window behind him, we can see the rain-lashed twin towers of Gotham. Gordon is reading a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. He looks harried, tired, and a little frightened.
CAP.: (Gordon's thoughts) Arkham Asylum… inmates free… staff dead.
CAP.: Damn.
CAP.: What am I going to tell Barbara? What am I going to do?
Cut to the Bat-signal, which morphs into Batman, swooping down to the roof of the GCPD building, where Gordon is now standing, huddled in a raincoat with his hood up against the rain.
Batman lands and shakes the rain out of his cape.
GORDON: (urgently) It's Arkham Asylum – the inmates are free – they're killing –
BATMAN: Slow down. Tell me what happened.
GORDON: Okay, okay. The inmates are free. We sent in a SWAT team a while ago – they didn't come back. Then one arrived on our doorstep. In pieces.
We get a small panel of a young man's bloody face and torn-open neck.
BATMAN: Croc. That must have been him.
We close in on Batman's face.
BATMAN: I'll go. I'll take Robin – he can find information on some of the more obscure inmates.
Cut back to Gordon's face. He is staring at Batman.
GORDON: You can't! He's a kid! He'll get hurt! He could be killed, Batman.
BATMAN: He's been trained by me, Gordon. He'll be fine.
Behind the snapshot panels, the panorama on the next page has zoomed closer to the house. We focus on the windows. One has a hand pressed against it.
Back to the snapshot panel of Batman and Gordon.
GORDON: I'm going to have to speak to the Mayor about this, Batman. This sidekick thing – I've let it go too far. They're just kids, for God's sake.
BATMAN: (sudden, sharp) Gordon –
GORDON: I know about Jason, Bruce. I've got a few files on missing children, on orphans in the city. I know that he died.
We zoom close to Batman's face. In his eye, we see a reflection of Jason's mangled face.
BATMAN: How -
GORDON: I won't let it happen again, Bruce. That's manslaughter. And I know that you're as sane as I am.
GORDON: Go, then. If he dies… it's on your head.
Batman walks to the edge of GCPD building and jumps, his cape billowing as he glides away.
Behind the snapshots, we zoom close to the window at the far end of the house. A face appears there.
Suddenly we are inside the room. It contains the Joker and a male orderly, who is tied to a chair. The orderly has been apparently stuffed into an ill-fitting Robin costume (it's meant to look like something a kid would wear for Halloween – flimsy, useless and garishly bright).
Joker has a crowbar in his hands.
JOKER: No, no no!
He raises the crowbar, punctuating every word with a vicious blow.
JOKER: It's –
JOKER: Not –
JOKER: The –
Close on Joker's insane features. Spittle flies from his mouth as he brings the crowbar down again and again.
JOKER: SAME!
Cut back to Tim and Riddler. Riddler is staring at Tim, restless, hopping from foot to foot as he says again:
RIDDLER: What's the answer?
CAP.: What is that… given one… two or none…
Tim raises his head.
TIM: A choice.
RIDDLER: Good, good!
Riddler seems genuinely happy that Tim answered correctly. He begins to walk in a slow circle around him.
RIDDLER: This is the deal – you're going to answer as many riddles as you can, okay? And if you get one wrong – well – you die. And you do have a choice, Tim – you can stay – play our little game – or try and run – and –
Riddler runs his hands over his cane, before nimbly stepping behind Tim and hooking the angular question mark around the boy's neck, pulling sharply backwards. We get a shot of Tim's face, and the Riddler behind him, the rusted metal cane linking them.
Riddler abruptly releases Tim, leaving the boy gasping, his hanging body swinging from side to side.
RIDDLER: Riddle me this – Voiceless, it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters.
CAP.: (Tim's thoughts) Voiceless… what has no voice but still cries? Wait, no… okay, next thing. Wingless flutters… so it flies, but without wings.
CAP.: Something to do with the weather, maybe? Okay, weather.
RIDDLER: Tim, my boy, you're making me wait!
Riddler raises his cane again, a hovering threat.
CAP.: Oh God, oh God – have to – have calm down –
RIDDLER: What's the answer?
TIM: S-Something to do with the weather?
Riddler's face twists. He bites his lip. Still raised, the cane dips slightly. Riddler seems to be considering Tim.
RIDDLER: Good. Good enough for now. I was expecting a bit better from the renowned Robin, though - (Riddler turns his head to the side, addressing the shadows in the corner of the room) weren't you?
Suddenly, with vicious force, Riddler swings the cane up again, slashing a bloody diagonal gash across Tim's back. Tim screams.
RIDDLER: Riddle me this: It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes out first and follows after, ends life, kills laughter.
CAP.: Just concentrate on the riddle – don't get scared. Cannot be felt – it's… intangible – like light? Lies behind stars – behind the light – darkness.
CAP.: Obvious.
TIM: It's the dark.
SCARECROW: (softly, from shadows) Hello, old friend.
As Scarecrow emerges from the shadows, glints of light begin to emerge. His hands seem strangely elongated, gleaming as though tipped with metal. His figure is long and lanky, emaciated. A long coat, shabby and stained, shrouds him, and his tall, patched hat shadows his face. The light never quite reaches his face, as though it's scared to reveal him to the world.
RIDDLER: And that's my cue, I'm afraid.
Riddler steps backwards, somewhat distancing himself from the events about to unfold.
Tim has not yet seen Scarecrow – he's approaching Tim from behind, slowly and stealthily, each movement calculated and strangely graceful. His hands catch the light again, revealing the long syringes attached to his fingers.
SCARECROW: Well hello, Timmy boy…
Scarecrow places his hands around Tim's face, interlocked syringes covering the boy's mouth. Close on the glass and the sharp tips of the needles. We cut closer, focusing on one needle, and each successive panel becomes thinner until the glint of metal fills it entirely.
SCARECROW: I wonder what terrifies you.
The needle panel turns horizontal. We pan out to a full-page image of Tim and Scarecrow, the needle sunk deep in the side of Tim's neck. Scarecrow's face looks out at us for the first time, seeming to make eye contact with us. He's wearing a full-face hood, with two opaque, green-glass eyeholes and a jagged slash for a grinning mouth. The material is rough, stained, patched and frayed.
We begin to close in on Tim's eye, closer and closer until the black pupil completely fills one panel.
As we watch, the darkness becomes flattened. A slight gleam shows that we are watching the proceedings through a pane of glass. Outside is a darkened chamber of uncertain size.
A sudden light illuminates a terrible, terrifying scene – bodies hanging from the ceiling in a single neat row.
TIM: No… (lettered small, a tiny whisper of denial)
First is Bruce, in costume except from his cowl, and his face is a mess of blood. A smile has been cut into his face, bloody gashes extending from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones. Blood coats his torso as well – the symbol of a bat has been sliced into his chest.
The next body is Dick's. He is naked from the waist up, and dark green, thorny vines entrap him, bursting from his skin, trailing from his eyes and mouth. His lips have a strange greenish tinge, a telltale sign of Ivy's work.
Jason's body has been frozen in the most horrifying way possible. Scarlet spikes protrude from his arms – we can only imagine the pain of having every nerve, sinew and scrap of flesh sliced to ribbons as spikes of frozen blood rip through them. His chest and torso are a mass of much larger shards of ice, stabbing through his lungs and heart, and his face is equally frozen, a mass of blood and frozen, broken veins.
Damian seems very small next to the grown men hung up next to him. His head lolls, hanging from barely a sinew of skin and flesh. His limbs have suffered the same fate – almost cut off with expert precision. It is a blessing, perhaps, that he seems to have suffered the quickest death.
Last is Barbara. Half of her body has been scarred, burnt and whipped with near-tangible malice, juxtaposing against the relative 'health' of her left side. Her costume, despite its armoured exterior, has barely held up against the onslaught.
TIM: No! No, no, no…
Time begins to sob, hands pressed against the glass wall of his prison.
TIM: Please…
Suddenly a voice echoes through the empty chamber. It sounds like Bruce's.
BRUCE: You couldn't save us, Tim.
TIM: Bruce?
BRUCE: You're weak. You should have been here. You should have saved us.
Tim stares up at Bruce's body, knowing that he can't be alive. Knowing that what he says is true.
BRUCE: Dick was better than you. Jason was better than you. Damian, too – each of them was a better son than you ever were.
TIM: Stop –
BRUCE: What right do you have to call yourself Robin?
BRUCE: It was a mistake to train you. A mistake to take you in.
TIM: Stop – please stop –
He begins to hammer against the glass, but it refuses to yield.
TIM: Let me out! Let me out!
More tears seep from his eyes and down his face. His hands are bloody and scraped from scratching at the glass in desperation, nails torn.
TIM: L-Let me out!
Tim sinks to his knees, weeping uncontrollably. A sudden tap on the window makes him look up. A single panel of an unnaturally wide smile against a white face is shown before the whole face of the young man before him can be seen.
J.J.: Hehehehe…
A terrifyingly familiar face greets Tim – snow-white skin, bright green hair and a scarred smile that stretches wider than the Cheshire Cat's.
TIM: No! Not you! Please, God, not you –
J.J. strokes the outside of the glass, tracing the outline of Tim's face with a purple-gloved finger. Then, with sudden force, he punches through it, grabbing Tim by the throat and pulling Tim towards him.
Tim lashes out at J.J., but the boy barely seems to notice the blows. With his free hand, J.J. punches through more of the glass separating them, creating a larger hole and pulling Tim through it.
TIM: Get off me! Get off – get away –
Tim manages to get free and scrambles away from J.J. He expects J.J. to follow him, but the boy just stands there. Tim's back collides with a wall. He can't go any further. Can't escape.
J.J. is staring at him. He begins to walk towards Tim, each step measured. He knows just as well as Tim that there is no escape. His prey is trapped, and scared, and weak.
J.J: Daddy once told me that madness, madness is like gravity –
Close on J.J.'s face. His unwavering smile.
J.J.: – all it takes is a little push!
TIM: (o.p.) No – no!
Cut to Scarecrow's face.
SCARECROW: Hm. Interesting.
Scarecrow draws a knife from inside his clothing and cuts Tim down from the ceiling, letting the boy fall to the floor and casting the knife casually away. Tim is whimpering softly. He curls into a ball, clutching his head.
TIM: No… n-no… please… PLEASE! Please, just kill me, just kill me, please –
He starts screaming – not words, just agonised wails of pure terror.
SCARECROW: (o.p.) This is turning out to be… quite entertaining.
Cut to a full-page panel of Tim. For this image, we're echoing as much of the imagery from The Killing Joke as possible. Tim is kneeling, clutching his head and crying, the background just a mangled series of HaHAHAHahAahHA in jagged red letters. A grin is slowly forming on his tear-streaked face. The one difference is the caption boxes littering the page.
CAP.: Stop –
CAP.: Stop –
CAP.: Stop –
CAP.: Stop –
Tim lunges forward, grabbing the knife from the floor. Wildly, he lashes out at Scarecrow, the grin on his face wide now. Scarecrow reels back, stumbles, and falls. Tim is on him in a second, stabbing and stabbing with no thought for aim or placement. Blood spurts, a joyful gush of red.
Tim dips a finger in the blood quickly pooling across the floor, raises it to his face and draws a clumsy smile stretching from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones.
TIM: Hehehe…
Suddenly the door bangs shut, the tail of Riddler's jacket disappearing as he flees the room.
A few seconds later, the door bursts open. Bruce stands there, cape torn, suit tattered, blood dripping from a cut high on his cheek.
BRUCE: Tim!
Tim turns towards him, still kneeling over the body of Scarecrow, clutching the bloody knife, blood dripping from his hands and the smile on his face.
BRUCE: Oh god, Tim… what… what happened?
Bruce takes to step forward, and Tim stares up at him. Bruce sits down next to him, and Tim still doesn't react.
BRUCE: … Tim?
Bruce gently tries to take the knife from the boy, but Tim grabs it and tries to pull it back towards him. His grip slips on the blood-slick metal.
BRUCE: Tim, it's okay. You're safe now. It's okay.
TIM: Hehehehe…
Tim's soft laughter begins to turn to choking sobs as tears gather in his eyes and pour down his face. His hands trembling, he pulls the knife out of Bruce's hand.
BRUCE: Tim! Tim, no –
TIM: Hehehe… Bruce…. h-hehe… h-he… s-sorry… hheheh-he…
Tim begins to raise his arm, slowly, trembling, the knife shaking in his hand, JJ Tim slashes a deep cut into his throat, severing the artery. Blood immediately begins to spurt from the wound in such quantities that it doesn't seem real. Yes, humans have a lot of blood in them.
BRUCE: TIM! Tim, no… no…
Tears fall from Bruce's eyes as he gathers Tim's twitching, bleeding body into his arms. Tim's head lolls. Still more blood pumps from the gash in his neck.
BRUCE: Tim... please…
BRUCE: … please… no…
Cut to the Joker, standing over the orderly's twisted, broken body, his bloody crowbar raised triumphantly.
JOKER: Slugs and snails and puppy-dog's tails… that's what little boys are made of…
Joker starts laughing. It begins as a soft wheezing, but quickly progresses to a hehehehehe similar to J.J.'s, before becoming full-blown, screeching, shrieking maniacal laughter that gradually fills the panel with jagged red letters.
Cut to a TV screen, showing early-morning Gotham news. A female newsreader is shuffling papers.
NEWSREADER: In light of recent events at the infamous Arkham Asylum, we ask our audience to be silent for a moment in memory of Robin.
The newsreader bows her head. After a few seconds, she looks back at us and continues speaking.
NEWSREADER: This terrible event has prompted a stream of anti-sidekick material flooding into the Gotham City Police Department, commanding the force to stop the use of untrained, possibly underage children in the business of preventing crime in the city.
NEWSREADER: Organisations such as the Teen Titans are also coming under scrutiny, and Commissioner Gordon is planning a possible license for being a costumed hero.
NEWSREADER: The commissioner has also given a statement to the news on this matter, via our reporter, Jimmy Olsen.
The newsreader presses a button on the remote next to her, switching to footage of Commissioner Gordon outside Arkham Asylum, surrounded by the flashing lights and blaring sirens of several police units and a couple of ambulances. Gordon looks harried, exhausted and there's a touch of fear in his eyes.
REPORTER: (o.p.) Commissioner! How do you feel about what happened in the asylum tonight?
GORDON: I – I'm both disgusted at the inmates and at Batman himself for instigating and not preventing this tragedy.
GORDON: If you'll excuse me?
REPORTER: Of course.
The reporter turns to the camera (looking at us) but a sudden flurry of activity at the entrance of the asylum. It's Batman, carrying Tim's body, walking slowly towards Gordon. Each step is measured. The crowd of policemen and reporters parts for him.
BATMAN: Gordon.
GORDON: I warned you. I told you it was dangerous! Why didn't you listen to me, Batman?
Behind them, two policemen carry Scarecrow's body out of the asylum on a stretcher and slide it into the back of an ambulance.
GORDON: This is on your head. I'm sorry.
A jittery policewoman comes forward along with a pair of paramedics. They begin to manoeuvre Tim's body onto a stretcher, but Batman grabs one of the paramedic's arms.
BATMAN: No.
A brave reporter scrambles through the crowd – the same one who took Gordon's statement.
REPORTER: So, uh, Batman, would you mind telling us about this young man?
BATMAN: I am not at liberty to reveal his identity.
Batman continues walking. No one else seems suicidal enough to approach him again and ask more questions.
GORDON: The boy's name was Tim Drake. He was sixteen years old. I'm afraid I should have stopped him coming here in the first place.
REPORTER: Commissioner? You knew the identity of Robin?
GORDON: The first was Dick Grayson, now an adult and the vigilante Nightwing. The second was Jason Todd. He died in an explosion in Lebanon. The third – Tim Drake – died tonight.
REPORTER: And how does this affect your view of Batman, Commissioner?
GORDON: I don't disagree that Batman is incredibly helpful in the crime rates department. But using underage children as 'sidekicks' is child abuse. I won't let it happen. I won't.
Gordon looks over at Batman's retreating form.
GORDON: Excuse me.
Gordon strides over to Batman. He looks down at Tim's face, regret clear in his eyes.
GORDON: I'm sorry about Tim.
Batman is silent.
GORDON: You know why I'm doing this. So that this kind of tragedy doesn't happen again.
BATMAN: I know.
He turns away.
The reporters swarm around Gordon again as we pan away from the scene and up, until we are over Arkham Asylum itself. A crow flutters down, lands on a chimney, and sheds feathers onto the brickwork. More crows fly down and land until the panel is filled with rustling black raggedy bodies.
The black becomes smooth, then we zoom out slowly, panel by panel until we see a gravestone. The inscription reads:
TIM DRAKE
RED ROBIN
FEAR WILL NEVER TAKE US COMPLETELY
In front of the stone is a glass vase with six white roses in it. Propped up against the vase is a letter. On the front is written To Tim, from Connor.
There is a man standing with his hands behind his back, a few metres from the grave, straight as a soldier. He has brown hair, angular features, and an Oriental-style moustache even though he looks European. He is wearing a grey suit. He seems diplomatic, if regal.
Bruce approaches, dishevelled, tired, his eyes red-rimmed. He stares at the man for a second.
BRUCE: R'as. I thought you would come.
R'AS: Bruce. I think you can tell why I'm here. I will make you this offer only once.
Bruce's face hardens. His voice is clipped and taut.
BRUCE: What are you talking about?
R'as raises an eyebrow, sceptical. His voice is sharper, more businesslike. He is not one for tact.
R'AS: The Lazarus Pit, where your second son was resurrected. We may be able to bring Tim back as well.
Bruce takes a step back. He seems fragile now. His gaze is drawn to the gravestone again, as though the grey surface is a magnet.
BRUCE: No – I mean – it's wrong. The first time, you didn't –
R'AS: You could have Tim back. He could be alright again.
BRUCE: No – don't ask me. It isn't my choice to make. I can't, do you understand? I can't.
R'as nods. He looks down at the grave.
R'AS: I… am sorry for the death of the boy. I am sorry that I cannot bring him back to you.
He stoops, and places a white rose in the vase. Then he nods goodbye to Bruce and walks away from the grave.
Thankyou for reading! Please tell me what you think of it!
Katie Trillion xx