It's a baby.
Tim wasn't sure what he was expecting. He wasn't exactly expecting this. He probably should've been expecting this, with all Ra's talked about "magical aging processes" and "trials until reaching adulthood," with all the boxes of stuff Ra's has recently placed around the Cage that Tim never got up the courage to open. But he wasn't expecting this, really.
In the cloning chamber that Ra's is opening, under the glowing letters that declare "Current Attempt Progress: 100%," with tiny closed eyes and tiny fisted hands and a tiny chest that shudders up and down with each tiny breath... It's a baby.
"We should congratulate ourselves, young detective," Ra's says happily, now holding the naked baby in the crook of one arm.
"Congratulations, it's a clone," Tim says flatly.
Ra's hums in thought. He traces one finger along the baby's face, trailing his fingertip around its round little cheeks.
Tim's stomach lurches. He tries to ignore it.
"Well, our initial attempt at my heir's creation is complete," Ra's says, gently tapping the tip of the baby's nose.
The baby gives him a little mumbling noise, smacking its lips together. (Tim's stomach lurches again.)
"Primary, you have a lot of work to do," Ra's says, and he's looking down at the baby as he says so. Then he looks up at Tim and begins walking toward him. "As you do, I believe. Infants have quite a few needs, you know. I will return as soon as I am able to begin the process of aging the heir."
Tim takes several quick steps back. "Hold on. I never-"
"Stop that," Ra's says. "Put out your arms."
Tim stops stepping backward. His arms go straight out in front of him like he's doing some ridiculous dance.
"Put out your arms so that you will be able to take the infant," Ra's corrects himself.
Tim's arms move in and together so that they're making more of a cradle.
Ra's places the baby in Tim's arms.
Tim promptly thrusts the baby back out towards Ra's. "Cool. I took it. Now take it back."
Ra's laughs lightly, like Tim just told a mildly amusing pun. "I will see you both soon, young detective, primary."
"Ra's?" Tim says, then again, more panicky, as Ra's heads for the door. "Ra's! Hey! Wait! I can't-"
The door shuts behind Ra's.
Tim looks down at the baby in his arms.
The baby looks up at him and starts to whimper.
Tim has a lot of things he wants to say. None of them seem appropriate around a newborn's ears. So instead, Tim sighs and sits down on the floor. Slowly, Tim places the baby on its back on the floor, careful about its head, because he remembers something about supporting a baby's head being important early on. He arranges the baby in a position that seems comfortable, being as gentle as he can with its little limbs.
Then he stands up and walks away.
He gets all the way to the column in the middle of the room before the baby starts to cry. It's a wail that doesn't seem possible to be coming from the lungs of something so small and fragile, a piercing and mournful and wanting sound.
"No," Tim says out loud. "No! I didn't, I wasn't-"
The crying kicks up a notch.
Tim wants to cry too. Instead, he rests his forehead on the cool, smooth rock of the column. He covers his ears. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, then another one, then a third one.
"I can't," Tim whispers to himself.
He doesn't know how. He doesn't want to have to know how. He can't. He can't, he can't, he can't-
But he has to.
Tim sighs. He opens his eyes. He uncovers his ears, not that it was muffling the sound of the crying much to begin with. He turns around and heads back to where he left the baby.
Crouching on the floor next to the newborn, Tim hesitantly puts a hand on its belly.
The baby's crying fades into a loud whimpering.
"Hi," Tim says awkwardly.
The baby blinks up at Tim. It takes a couple shallow breaths. Then it starts crying again.
"Stop that," Tim says harshly, then he curses himself. He doesn't want to-
Yeah.
"I mean, it's okay, don't cry, you're okay. It's going to be okay," Tim corrects himself. Carefully, he picks the baby up, cradling it in one arm, and it quiets down. He looks over at the stacks of boxes Ra's placed around the room on his last couple of visits, "for the heir," as he'd claimed.
Tim hadn't known what it meant then.
He's kind of hoping he's right in what he thinks it means now.
It's clumsy work, opening boxes with a newborn in the crook of one arm. Tim manages it eventually, just like he's been managing every other single thing he's had to do since he woke up here.
The first big box is filled with a multitude of smaller, clear boxes, each one full of white powder. For a moment, Tim's brain blanks. Why would Ra's bring him an entire criminal empire's worth of powdered cocaine?
Then Tim smacks himself in the forehead. Duh. Ra's isn't a criminal empire kingpin, and this isn't Gotham, and Tim isn't on a vigilante drug bust (don't think about how that's something that'll never happen again, Tim). The white powder isn't cocaine. It's baby formula.
Okay. Good. Something for the baby to eat. Tim moves on to the next box.
After uncovering a basket-like bed, some basic toys, a variety of League-like outfits in sizes Tim has never seen before, assorted things Tim has no idea what to do with, and lots more baby formula, Tim finds a box filled with neatly-folded cream-colored fabrics. Tim picks up one of the fabrics and shakes it out to reveal a kind of rectangle with triangles cut out of two of the sides, plus some metallic snaps at each corner. Finally.
Tim starts to place the baby down on the ground again, then he hesitates. He goes back to one of the boxes filled with things that he doesn't know the purposes of, and he pulls out a shiny, slick, large rectangle of fabric. He scrutinizes it. Yeah. Close enough.
He puts the shiny fabric on the ground, smooths it out, and puts the baby on the shiny fabric. Then he starts trying to wrangle the baby around into the cream-colored fabric. Its tiny limbs are stronger than he wants them to be, and it takes forever. Eventually, though…
"That'll do," Tim says, looking down at his handiwork. "A diaper. Ta-da."
The baby makes a little cooing sound up at him.
"Happy?" Tim asks. Not that he cares beyond making it stop crying, of course. He's not going to care. He's certain he's not.
The baby scrunches up its face in thought. Then it starts to cry again.
Tim sighs. "Yeah, me neither. Let's get you something to eat. Or drink. Or… Whatever."