Tim felt the blood rush to his head, as he went into a handstand. He looked at down at the sawdust covered floor far below. The eleven year old was on the trapeze bar, fifty feet in the air. This was what he loved, to perform and be part of something more than a business. The circus was family, even if his parents had forgotten that.
How he had stood living at that horrible school was beyond him. He could take rules and things like that. It was how the teachers and other kids looked at him that was so unbearable. He had lived in a circus, so what? That didn't make he a gyps freak, a thief or some kind of scum. There was only so much of that people could put up with, besides he learned more teaching himself than he ever did listening to some teacher, who stood at the front of the room, talking about things he already knew.
He was proud of being an acrobat. He wished his father had never inherited all that money from his uncle. That money had changed his parents, until Tim almost couldn't remember what they had been like before. What good was money, if you lost yourself in it?
The changes had started when his father invested the money and had gotten a great deal of profit. His parents had started acting different to the other performers shortly after that they had decided to leave show business. His father had started Drake Industries. Jack had said it was going to be as big as Wayne Enterprises someday.
Tim had liked Gotham at first, but then his parents had started going to parties and coming home not completely sober. Sometimes they wouldn't come home at all. He would sit up for hours waiting for them. The business really took off and they had moved out of the city. By then Tim had become sick of the whole thing and he told his parents that. He would have gone along with it, but they treated everyone like dirt, and they were starting to do the same to him.
He said he wasn't happy in Gotham and wanted to go back to how things use to be. He hadn't cared that they lived in a trailer, that they shopped at thrift stories or that people outside of the circus hadn't liked them. He got part of his wish, anyway. His parents sent him to boarding school after boarding school. Every time he got out.
He hadn't spent his short time in Gotham idly though. He had learned a lot about computers, and most importantly, how to hack them. His dad had hired a man named Ben Kane to hack into competitors' systems and get the jump on their products.
Tim had been lonely and ended up hanging out with Kane before the Drake family moved out of the city. At first the man had told him to get lost, but Tim had had nowhere to get lost to, so he stayed and watched Kane. He learned how to hack systems by watching the older hacker. After a while Ben had gotten used to having him around and even taught him a few tricks of the trade. He had picked up a few new tricks of his own along the way.
Tim had begun to swing back and forth, while he was thinking over the past few years. He was still in a hand stand. He let himself fall forward. At the same time he let go of the bar. He flipped with the motion of his swinging which sent him high into the air. He caught hold of a rope that was part of the rigging that held the big top up. He climbed up it and was soon perched in the scaffolding, completely out of sight.
He could see some of the clowns juggling bowling pins. Mitch was throwing knives at his sister, Kate. Bill, the animal tamer, and his wife, Victoria, were working on an act with the leopard seals and penguins. They had to make sure the seals were fed right before they started because the main diet of seals were penguins, which wouldn't be good for anyone, except the seals, of course.
Suddenly a few police officers walked into the tent and went over to Nathan, the ringmaster, who was trying to get the Mason twins to speed up their act. It was too long and the clowns, who came out after them didn't have enough time in the center ring. Clowns were popular in every town, but one: Gotham. The Joker had made clowns a sore subject and the clowns would usually just not go out in that city. They had been pelted with popcorn one year, and that had been the end of preforming in Gotham for the trip.
Tim could just make out that one of the offices was saying to Nathan, "We're looking for Timothy Drake."
Tim's stomach twisted into a knot. He hadn't thought anyone would come looking for him, but he had trashed the school before he left, a move he was beginning to regret. He should have just left, but he had spent a lot of time getting that spray paint into the school, and he had wanted to use it.
"What for?" Nathan asked. His voice was easier to hear. To be a ringmaster one had to shout all the time, and the man had become used to shouting at everyone to the point he never stopped.
"We were just told to find him," the officer answered. "They're looking for him in New Jersey." 'They' were obviously the police. Tim thought quickly. What had he done in New Jersey? Nothing came to mind, unless the police had caught on to his parents' illegal business and come looking for everything on the Drakes. He doubted it though. They were his parents, but he had thought that they would just send him right back to school, if the school even called them and if they took the time to try and find him.
He hadn't wanted them to worry if they did bother to worry about him, so he hadn't erased his search history and he left a poster for the circus up on his computer screen. It was easy to figure out where he had gone, and he had screamed something about going home the night before he went back to High Brook.
"Timothy!" Nathan shouted, looking up to the top of the massive tent.
The young acrobat at once jumped for the rope he had used to climb up. Tim slid down the piece of rawhide at an alarming rate. His hands were red by the time he got to the ground. From the looks Tim was getting, he guessed he had surprised the officers a little.
"Are you Timothy Drake?" the policeman who had been talking to Nathan asked.
"Yes," Tim answered shortly. He hoped he wasn't going to be sent back to High Brook. Tim wondered how much trouble he'd be in for the vandalism he had committed at the place that had been little better than a prison to him.
"I'm Officer Carle Deaton. I was sent here to see if you had gotten here okay after you left school," the man said shortly. Tim got the impression that there was more going on. "Someone will be here to pick you up soon."
Tim was surprised. Were his parents coming to get him? Maybe they had found out that he wasn't at school, and they had been worried. They didn't just care about money; he was sure of it. They missed being a family and they wanted to straighten things out too. The fight the three of them had had was probably the worst one over the past four years, and they must feel as bad as he did about the whole thing. Tim was actually excited to see them, something he hadn't been in years.
He went to his family's old trailer to get it cleaned up. Hudson, the owner/manager of the circus had kept it for them. He had been happy to see Tim when he showed up a week ago. Hudson hadn't asked any questions, he gave Tim the keys, and said they were all glad he was back for however long.
Tim wasn't a very good housekeeper, but he got the trailer looking the best he could. He didn't want it to be a mess when his mom saw it. She had always made the trailer feel homey. Tim knew his parents weren't very good at parenting, but they had tried. Tim could take care of himself for the most part, so that had made the situation easier. He loved them and they loved him. They just were bad at showing it.
A few hours passed and the Drakes' old home was almost spotless. Tim practically ran to the door when there was a loud knock. The thought didn't occur to him that his parents wouldn't have knocked. This was their old home, and they would have just walked in.
Tim opened the door, a smile on his face, but it was gone the moment he realized he didn't know the person waiting on the other side.
"Hello," the man said shortly. He seemed uncomfortable, and he was clearly out of his element. He was tall and had broad shoulders. It took Tim at second to recognize the man as Bruce Wayne. "Are you Timothy Drake?"
"Yes," Tim answered. That was the second time someone had asked that question that day. Why was everyone so worried about who he was?
"I'm so sorry for your loss," Mr. Wayne said. There was pity in his eyes.
That startled Tim. "What loss?" he asked. What was going on?
Wayne's frown deepened. "Would it be alright if I came in? There's something I have to tell you."
This was starting to scare Tim. Were his parents okay? What was happening? "Sure," he answered and stepped aside to let Wayne into his family's old home.
Wayne came inside and took a seat at the small restaurant booth Tim's parents had gotten for a dinner area. They had been passing an old restaurant that was being torn down on their way to Dallas. They had asked the owner for the booth. She had been happy to let them have it. It was one less thing for her to take to the dump.
Tim sat down across from Wayne. He was becoming more panicky inside. He pushed down everything that he felt. He had started doing that the first time his parents sent his away. It was the easiest way to deal with the hurt.
"Timothy, this is going to be hard to hear," Wayne paused a moment, unsure of how to break the news. "Your parents were killed last night."
Tim just looked at him. That wasn't possible? "So where are they?" he asked
"Tim, your parents are dead," Bruce said gently. He had thought the boy would have been told what had happened. He wished he wasn't the one having to tell him this.
"But they're coming to get me," Tim said. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. This was all in his head. It was just a bad dream.
"I'm so sorry," Bruce said. He wasn't sure if he was handling this right, but there wasn't exactly a right way to handle this. He hadn't had to be told his parents were dead. He hadn't had to tell Dick, and the Commissioner had been the one to tell Jason that his father was never coming back.
Tim was really panicking now. "No! They can't be dead!" he almost screamed. They had to come get him. They couldn't leave him forever, not after they had left him so often. They were supposed to come home and be a family again, like they were before that money ruined their lives.
"Timothy," Bruce said gently. "We're worried that the people who did this might try and get you. You need to pack your things and come with me."
Tim remember the first time he'd been sent away. It was the day after they had moved in it their new house. He'd been walking around by the woods near the house. He'd come inside and found his parents in their office. They had told him to go pack his things and that he was going to a school in New York. It hadn't been High Brook that time. He had gone up to his room without a word. He felt like crying, but he didn't. That would just annoy his parents more than they already had been.
Tim's jaw was locked as he got up and went over to his bed. He pulled out the old, wooden trunk. The trailer was cramped and they had had to do everything possible to make up for the lack of space.
He began to shove clothes into his pack back. Tim kept telling himself not to think. If he thought about what was happening, he would be sick. He found his old stuffed lion and buried it under his clothes. His parents hadn't liked stuffed toys for some reason. Tim guessed it was because they reminded them of the carnival games that gave circus people a reputation as cheats, gamblers and thieves. The end result was that Tim didn't have many toys.
Tim had finished packing, when he realized he didn't even know where he was going, or what was going to happen to him. He couldn't think about his parents. It was too horrible. He had to focus on what was going on right then or he would start crying, which he wouldn't let himself do. He looked over at Mr. Wayne. What was he doing here anyway? His parents hadn't been friends with Wayne that he could remember. They had said he was a goodie, goodie, meaning he wasn't in illegal business like they were. Tim knew they hadn't liked to be around people who weren't doing anything wrong. They felt guilty and they didn't feel as guilty surrounded by people who were doing the same things as them.
"Your parents wanted me to take care of you," Mr. Wayne said as if reading Tim's thoughts.
Tim nodded. That made sense. Jack and Cathie had talked about how wonderful Wayne was for taking in Richard and Jason. Richard was from the circus too. He wondered if the older boy was ashamed of that like Tim's parents had been. He hoped not. Jason was from the streets and the street kids of Gotham were known to be wild and tough. He didn't like the idea of being around someone who was a bully. He had put up with enough of that at High Brook. If Jason was mean, he could run away back to the circus. That door would always be open to him.
Tim stepped out of the trailer into the blinding sun. He looked up at the waving flags that were on top of the red and white circus tent. There was a cold breeze down on the ground, but up there it was stronger, strong enough to make the blue flags dance wildly. They seemed as if they were waving good-bye to him. Tim got the impression that it was going to be a very long good-bye.
wantedwantedwanted
Timothy turned out to be a small eleven year old acrobat. Bruce hated having to tell him his parents were dead. He had seen the light go out of the boy's eyes when he told him. Bruce felt as if he was the one to cause it, but he wasn't. It was the fault of whoever had killed the Drakes. He was going to find the people who had done this. It didn't matter what hole he had to crawl down to find them. The Drakes would have their silencers caught, Tim would have justice for his family and Bruce would have satisfaction.
Bruce was driving down the road, back to Gotham. Tim had gone to sleep some time ago. Dick and Jason had had school that day and Tim didn't need to be surrounded by strangers when he got the news. Bruce had called Alfred to inform him of the changes that would take place by the time he returned home.
Bruce could picture the look on the butler's face. "Another one, sir?" Alfred questioned in a voice that said he wasn't surprised at all. Bruce had defended himself. It wasn't like the time he had called Alfred to pick him up and he had had a crying Dick in his arms or the time he pulled into the bat cave, Jason sitting in the bat mobile, telling the Dark Knight what he thought of him, which wasn't too nice in any sense of the word.
This child hadn't been his choice, but he was glad the Drakes had trusted him with their son. From what he had seen at the Drakes' house, they weren't doing a real great job. Bruce understood that some people loved their kids, but didn't know how to be a parent or even an adult for that matter. He knew no parent was perfect; he was far from it, but he expected people to at least try. Jack and Cathie clearly had stopped trying, and Timothy was the one paying for it.
Situations like this made Bruce think of the book, 'Frankenstein'. Victor gave his creation life and then he left it to die. As a result his family, friend and an innocent girl all ended up dead, because he couldn't put aside himself, and he wouldn't own up to his own actions. How many times did that happen in this day and age? So many parents were the Victors of life and their children were the unloved and unwanted creature, who turned to crime and murder. If people would raise their children and put off their own selfish wants, so many problems would vanish. There would always be troubles, but it would be better than the destroyed lives Bruce saw every night.
Tim stirred and woke. He looked around. "Where are we?" he asked shortly. There was tension in his voice that made Bruce think he was holding back tears. He had been surprised at Tim's reaction to his parents' deaths. Maybe the reality was still setting in. He had been upset, but most children cried when something like this happened.
"We're half an hour outside of Gotham," Bruce answered. He hated what he had to ask Timothy, but someone was going to have to. After all Batman was going to be investigating this and Tim could know something about his parents' murders and the fake documents Bruce had found.
"Tim, were you aware that your parents were forging tax statements?" Bruce asked.
"Yes," Timothy answered flatly. He was staring out the window at the sky that was starting to grow dark. "I knew they were working with Cobblepot and that they were stealing other peoples' tech."
"Do you think that had something to do with their deaths?" Bruce asked gently. Talking with victims no matter what the circumstances was hard, but this was worse. It was too close to home and the first rule of investigating a crime was not to let it get to you, but sometimes there were cases that just tore Bruce apart.
He understood how Tim must feel, but the boy's lack of emotion was beginning to make Bruce uneasy. He also understood that everyone dealt with pain and loss differently, and Tim's way was most likely to not deal with it. The grief would break him if he kept it up.
"Probably," Timothy said. There was a moment of silence. "We got into a pretty bad fight the night before I left." It was a simple statement, but Bruce got the impression Tim was trying to find someone to tell him it was okay and they hadn't been mad about the fight and everything else. At that moment Bruce was the only person who would be there for him. The Drakes didn't have any family or any friends they trusted.
"I'm sorry, Timothy," he said sincerely. "I understand what you're going through." Sometimes just having someone who understood was all it took to make things bearable.
Bruce had thoroughly looked into the Drakes background, and it was small wonder they had been killed. The questions was who had done it. The suspect pool ranged from Thorne, the drug dealer/business man to Oswald Cobblepott/the Penguin and everyone who worked for them was in there too. This was small chance the true killer would ever be found.
"I heard your parents were killed, too," Tim said. He was still looking out the window. "Did they ever catch the guy who did it?"
"No, they didn't," Bruce answered. His voice was harder than he meant it to be.
That put an end to the conversation. The vehicle was completely silent the rest of the drive. Bruce wished he knew what to say to help the orphaned boy, but saying the right thing had never been his strong point. Bruce knew he wasn't good with people. Sure he dated a lot, but those woman weren't interested in talking, they just wanted to be seen on Bruce Wayne's arm at some 'important' party. Once they had their moment in the spot light, they would be gone. Alfred wasn't much of a teacher when it came to people skills. The first person who Bruce really was able to talk with had been Dick and the little eight year old had done most of the talking.
They passed the Drake Mansion. Tim's head turned to look down at his hands as they went by. He didn't want to ever see that place again. It was one of the signs of the money that had led to his parents' deaths. What was it about money that changed people? It didn't change everyone, just some people, but why? It was like a poison to some, yet a gift to others. Tim would have been satisfied to live the rest of his life in his family's trailer, but his parents had had higher aspirations, ones that had nothing to do with a small, quiet, family.
Bruce stopped the car in front of Wayne Manor. He looked up at the old house. Ivy hung from the roof down over the front of the house, not in a forgotten way, but in a cared for and green homey way. It hadn't always felt that way. For years it held lonely misery for its two occupants, but Bruce had found himself in the Dark Knight, and that had lessened the pain for a time.
Tim got out of the car, his backpack over one shoulder. It looked like he'd be stuck here, until Mr. Wayne got sick of him like his parents had. He didn't expect Wayne to be any different than his parents. Why should he be? He had had his money handed to him on a silver platter from the moment he was born. If anything, the billionaire should be worse than the Drakes had been. Maybe Wayne would let him go back to the circus, and if he didn't, Tim could get there on his own. He'd done it before, after all.
"Dick and Jason will be home soon. Alfred's picking them up from school on his way home from the airport," Bruce said, just for the sake of having something to fill the awkward silence.
"Who's Alfred?" Tim asked. He knew who Dick and Jason were. Most people on the planet knew who they were and if someone didn't it was probably because they hadn't been near a TV, newspaper, or magazine for four years.
"He's the butler here. He keeps this place running," Bruce explained as the two of them walked into the mansion.
Tim's eyes flew around the foyer and the imperial staircase that was before him. He had thought his mom and dad's house had been too big, but it was nothing compared to Wayne Manor.
"I'll show you to your room," Bruce said walking up the stairs. Tim followed after him.
Bruce opened a door across from Dick's room, next door to Jason and across the hall and one room down from his own. Alfred's room was on the first floor. He said he liked to be where it was quiet, seeing as Bruce, Dick and Jason were always coming home from a night's patrol at the oddest hours. "I'll let you get settled," Bruce said as Tim walked into his new room.
"Thank you," Tim said and shut the door. The moment it was closed he almost fell to the floor, sobbing. He buried his face in his hands, trying to stay quiet. This was so unreal. It felt like he was watching this all unfold from the sidelines. His life had had its ups and down, but the downs hadn't been bad at all compared to this. To think he'd been shouting at his mom and dad only seven days ago. He'd give anything if he could go back and tell them he loved them. He would put up with the drunken laughter at three in the morning, the not telling him when they'd be back from wherever it was they were going and the endless wondering if they even loved him. If only he could go back and tell them how sorry he was for fighting and trying to make trouble so they would pay attention to him.
Why had this happened? What had they done that was so bad they deserved to die? They stole, lied, weren't good parents, and weren't very good people, but that didn't make it okay for someone to kill them in cold blood.
Still crying, Tim unpacked his bag. He sat down in a chair by a bookcase that ran the whole length of the wall. He would have picked out a book to read if his eyes hadn't been too watery to see out of. Tim held his old stuffed lion, High Wire in his lap. He had named it that because he'd gotten the lion the night of his first show. He'd walked the high wire that night without fear. He had felt so free that night as if he'd been walking on air. What he wouldn't give to go back to that night and stay there forever.
There was the sound of voices in the hall. Tim quickly wiped away his tears. He listened closely, but whoever was there wasn't coming to his room. He went to the bathroom and washed his face, trying to take the telltale redness away from his eyes. He didn't want the others to see how torn apart he was. He was grieving, and he was in a house full of strangers, and kind as they may or not be he didn't want to be around them.