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singillppl2025-02-05 07:03 pm
singmod) wrote in singillppl2025-02-05 07:03 pm
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February 2025 Test Drive Meme
FEBRUARY 2025 TDM
PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — and the current inhabitants, their fellow survivors.
PROMPT TWO — WINTER'S BITE: Tales of superstition from the Northern Territories appear to come to light in the form of fearsome creatures made of ice and bone.
PROMPT THREE — FROZEN HEARTS: A strange, new affliction causes Interlopers to find themselves figuratively and literally turning to ice, and there's only one way of saving them.
ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST
WHEN: Start of the month.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.
'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'
It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.
These are the words of the Darkwalker, you’ll soon come to find.
You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. This place has been ransacked, abandoned long ago. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you.
Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.
The daylight is thin. Hours are few. It will get dark soon.
You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.
You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.
Or it’s possible you may come across someone else here. Someone who looks far better prepared to deal with the freezing cold and frozen landscape, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilization...?
Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People! In the town!
As you head into the outskirts and then further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people. Several dozen at most, but no more.
Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.
The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.
“They come again. I had thought we may not see more of you.” he nods gravely. No, this is not the first time that this has happened. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you, Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”
The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful... and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, and while it seems there's a few people already living here, there's enough space for those in need of them. There's places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.
There are canisters with hot herbal teas, mostly. But some coffee can be found. There’s also soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus some grilled fish. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast for those who have battled the cold to come here.
Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks — aided by a handful of others in the Hall. Your fellow survivors, but those who have been here for some time now. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames.
He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the town and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but gesture to your fellow survivors. They will have better answers than him.
WINTER'S BITE
WHEN: The Month of February.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural beings; magical beings; potential cold injuries; potential cuts/bleeding
Amongst the original inhabitants to the Northern Territories, superstition and folk tales were much more prominent — stemming from a mix of superstitions that settlers brought with them to the area and those beliefs of people native to Northern Territories. Some are familiar to Interlopers, others may be less so.
Much of this is now lost, with the population of Milton dead or gone, but some writings can be found in the town. Some wrote of their superstitions in regards to the changing weather and wildlife in personal journals in the lead up to what is known as The Flare, which may still be found in the empty homes uninhabited by Interlopers. Some note feeling as if 'the souls of the animals are angered somehow' or that the changes to the Aurora may be as if 'the afterlife comes too close to the world'.
Maybe they had a point, maybe they were on to something. It’s hard to really say for sure.
Whether it’s magic, some supernatural cause, or something caused by the Aurora, there’s a strange shifting in snow that blankets the Northern Territories. Throughout the month, angry chittering and clacking — like glass or bones — can be heard out in the wilds. Out of the corner of one’s eye, they may see the snow move of its own accord — with confronting it leading to nothing, and stillness.
For a time.
Until whatever it is finally strikes.
Out from the snow, spectral creatures comprised of ice and animal bone spring forwards — jittering and clunky in their movements. Long bodies that twist and dance in the air, all sharp teeth and even sharper ice. Is it a kind of animal? Or spirit? Some mix of both? An angered spirit of nature or some long dead animal? It’s hard to tell for sure.
Despite their clunky movements, their bodies rolling and jaws chattering, these strange spectral creatures are fast and they’ll strike hard — looking to take a chunk out of the unsuspecting and unprepared Interlopers. Even just brushing against one of these strange creatures can lead to some nasty lacerations if they knock themselves hard enough against you. What’s maybe worse than the lacerations themselves is the wounds will burn with their chill, colder than anything you’ve ever felt.
But being made out of bone and ice means they are also just that. Blunt force may just be enough to end up shattering the bodies of these creatures, sending their remains flying. Be careful, though. Those shards are still just as sharp and will become flying projectiles which could cause further injury to Interlopers.
Alternatively, a way to battle back these ice creatures would be through the use of flame. Fire, torches, Interlopers with the Lightbringer Feat would prove vital in getting rid of these creatures long enough to get to safety.
Fleeing is also an option. The creatures will attempt to chase for a time, but will soon give up and end up returning to the snow once more.
FROZEN HEARTS
WHEN: The Month of February, into March.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural ailments; body horror; characters turning to ice; potential character death.
The cold is a persistent thing in the Northern Territories. Even during the summer months, it doesn’t seem to get warm all that much. But the winter is a different kind of beast, and the cold seems to sink into your very bones.
It starts with a kind of cold that you find it hard to get warm, no matter how long you spend by the fire. In time, it feels like that cold has started freezing your body up: your joints feel stiff and sore. Moving around is a chore, even for the simplest of tasks like walking or sitting down. In time, it gets into the smaller joints: fine motor skills become tricky. You drop things, fail to grip on to items, struggle to close your hands into fists. Even talking can be a bit of a struggle, like you’re slowly getting lockjaw.
With that, it’s not surprising that your mood will dip. Sour moods, and even icy manners aren't out of the ordinary. It’s easy to be miserable when you’re so damn cold and you’re struggling to move and speak. It is so easy to find yourself with lowered spirits, to be irritable and closed off from your fellow Interlopers.
It feels as if nothing might warm you, physically or emotionally.
You find yourself being cold towards others, even those you care about most, your closest companions in this world. You may snap at them, or continually brush them off. You find yourself with little patience for them, and are often unmoved by their attempts to bring you some good cheer.
And certainly, what isn’t out of the ordinary is the strange affliction that plagues your skin. It isn’t frostbite, that you know of. Your skin doesn’t turn red, then white then black. No, it turns blue, frosted with white. Your skin looks less like skin and more like stone….. Or, rather, ice.
It starts in the fingers and toes, and will slowly work its way up your limbs, working its way towards your center. Even your hair may start to freeze. As it progresses, you find it harder to move. In enough time, you may find yourself completely frozen on the spot, and in time, unable to even speak as the ice slowly encloses around you.
If something isn’t done quickly enough, you may find yourself completely turning to ice and being trapped as nothing more than a statue.
Hope isn’t lost, though. They say in stories there’s such things that might save some terrible affliction such as this: An act of true love.
This cold isn’t beaten back by flames, but a different kind of warmth.
But what is true love?
It might just be enough to reverse the effects and undo this terrible affliction before it’s too late, to let the ice slowly melt back again and restore you to what you once were.
FAQs
1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.
2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.
3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.
4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.
5. More information about Milton can be found here.
1. Digging in the snow where the creatures have returned will prove fruitless, Interlopers will not even find bones.
2. The creatures can spring on Interlopers in groups of up to three.
1. The notion of true love is open to interpretation. Platonic love, familial love, romantic love could be deemed as acts of true love. Perhaps even the genuine compassion of a fellow Interloper could be seen as true love.
2. An act of showing true love is very flexible! It could be a kiss, a hug, shedding tears for the afflicted, some desperate attempt of helping the afflicted from freezing. Players are encouraged to play around with what this might entail!
Feast
He can't hunt, not now. His success was abysmal to begin with and he's been beaten down by whatever fresh plague he's harboring this time. Tim hadn't even had the chance to scurry back to Lakeside after the storm; now Tim's half convinced he can't move at all, an acute and mournful pain in his body.
Tim Drake is in the Community Center and he is actually dying, on account of the monster that is history, and great expectations.
Because Bruce freaking Wayne is defrosting in the Hall.
Tim finishes his food in that pitiful way that's unmistakably forced. And then he's so out of there. Because he needs
to not hurl, maybe?
Everything hurts.
So it takes him a while; he grapples with life, the universe, and everything; he double checks his gun's on him; he glances at himself in a mirror for a sec as he bunches the things into weak arms- all Mr Midday Melodrama as he tells himself he's not doing this shit again he's not playing the game anymore.
B is still damp when Tim, having welcomed himself back into the big ongoing feast, holds out his loot to the sad soggy man.
Tim is cringing back a cough. Tim is a dirty liar. (Maybe?)
"Here."
He swallows- hard, otherwise he'll cough a lung out, again- and counts the effort of standing straight a blessing. Can't worry over faking a poker face if his photograph's decorating the dictionary's page on Dead Tired.
It's neat. It's cool. It's fine.
"These should fit you."
It's fine. In his arms is a hunting man's overcoat, previously worn by Bruce Wayne. Jeans previously worn by Bruce Wayne. Socks that seem clean enough. And Tim has a headache to blame for the exhausted frown that seems so permanent on his expression now. It's fine.
no subject
Or if they know how. Tim seems like he knows how.
Bruce sees him when he wolfs down his food. Sees him when escapes the Hall and thinks he seems a little odd. So when he reappears, Bruce makes a note of it. Just a few details he wants to remember if this kid turns out to be a problem. Tim's very deliberate approach feels off putting and it raises his defenses that much higher. Bruce isn't one to be rude while he's pretending to be normal about things; he looks at the bag then back at Tim and for a minute his brow furrows, like he's running Tim's face through a database in his brain. Did he know this kid? The kid knew him.
Or his size at least. He takes the bag and sets it aside.
"Thanks. Not sure how you knew my size though."
His way of saying 'who are you' without saying it. Maybe it'd cause a scene and Bruce didn't want more attention on him than necessary.
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The whole thing is stupid and Tim explains to this stupid man, "The other big guy in here has a horse. You have- what, Brioni?"
The other big guy (with a horse patiently waiting outside) had been in Milton already, right? So why the need the fill up in the dinner for newbies, unless-? Tim grunts.
Recognition, not realization, dawns. And some of that fight meant for himself and aimed at anyone but seeps out of him.
"So you," he drawls, "get the off-the-rack hand-me-downs in men's large."
There's the childish need to tell B that Tim had said no such thing about the goods being in his size, only that they would fit. Over explaining is dangerous. They both know this. Wincing with a friendly pang of his earache, Tim adds, "I didn't last six minutes in Givenchy when I got here and that was the wool blend. But if you're waiting for a tailored fit you're out of luck. Let me guess, you haven't had anything to eat either."
Tim thinks-- fuck it, this could be fun.
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He knows Tim didn't say his size specifically. He'd hoped maybe it would catch him in a way that he'd reveal something Bruce could use to solve this mystery beyond 'this guy knows me.' He takes a moment to peek in the bag and already appreciates the socks nestled in there - his are soaked through. Gucci loafers are shit for walking in snow.
When Tim winces, it's easy to ignore his question in favor of one his own. "Are you alright? You should get that seen about."
Of course he hasn't eaten. The only thing he'd been certain of upon entering was this was a place called Milton. Everything else, he kept a respectable distance until his paranoia's satisfied that it's safe.
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"Don't worry about it. I never got the glimmerfog all the way outta my system. It's not contagious." in a way that's more rote than not.
The confession (because it is a confession, an admission to shortcomings that wants to singe the tip of his tongue as he carries on) opens the door to... distance. And Tim, a teenager in a snowy hellscape, gives himself permission to bring up an uncertain hand to rub the back of his neck.
Distance isn't what he ever wanted but it's what he'd been praying for so-- like--
well, yeah, okay. Simple. Tim can do simple.
"My name's Al. Short for Cal. Short for Callum."
And Bruce should eat something because the bloodstream is contaminated anyway and there's no telling when game will be scarce or nonexistent and if Batman doesn't-- but, well, that's not Tim's concern. (Is it?)
"You?"
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"Glimmerfog? That's something natural to this place?" Seemed the most logical answer, all things considered. It had the ability to snatch him out of the most secure place he knew. Why wouldn't it have something called glimmerfog? It's another thing to note in the casefile he's building in his head.
Bruce picks up on the uncertainty. On the uneasiness Tim seems to be feeling and while he's interested in understanding how this kid - Callum (he doesn't think this kid's name is Callum) - knows him, he doesn't want to push him into a retreat by pressing him harder. He'd have to use a gentler means of interrogation. So instead, he offers Tim a smile that is, for the most part, genuine. It just doesn't reach his eyes.
"Nice to meet you, Al. I'm Jack Shaw." He knows he's been recognized that Tim will likely already realize that is not his name. But so long as this was the game they were playing - aliases and secrecy - then he would go along with it for now.
"Are you from Milton?" He's not. People from Gotham have a look.
no subject
Ta-da. Except not really, that's just straight-up Tim's fault for venturing into the relentless cold, constantly, to fetch-
"It was fog," he croaks. His voice is gross, and now he's flushed red. His joints hurt, and this isn't as fun as he thought it would be. "It glimmered."
Jason Todd had sauntered out of green rolling mist, and things had not gotten much better since. (That's a lie- Kate had said she liked him; Tim seems to mentally shake himself off the rut of misery he had so quickly and effortlessly dug.)
"I don't know if it's natural or not. But you're going to learn to-- pay attention to the folklore, old stories, urban legends."
Not much 'urban' if they're in Milton, huh. Tim thinks that the world shouldn't be spinning like it is, so he leans himself against the wall and decides he looks cool enough to point out, in a practiced patience, "You used a different name when I met you last time. So you might want to get that straightened out before you get called out on it, Mr Shaw."
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It's Bruce's business to know things. So learning the history of Milton was already on his priority, if only to know where he'd been plopped down. The urban legends and folklore were on his list. But he nods at Tim's suggestion anyway. "I'll keep that in mind."
As Tim shifts, so does Bruce. Enough toward him that he's not out of sight, but neither is what's happening in front of him. All it would take is a swift turn of his head to take in anything he might find interesting or relevant. Right now, that was Tim.
A curious tilt of his head as he regards what he's just been told. It was news to him. "That's very funny, considering I've never been here before."
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The way it should be, when one situation is so contradictory to only one person.
Tim thinks, what if B doesn't... know him...? Then that's perfect. Then it should be perfect.
Then the jerk (the jackass- not everybody has a meltdown at the mention of the dearly departed's name) should at least know,
"That's... that's going to be inconvenient. But you call yourself by another name. In Gotham. Why not just use that?"
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And it doesn't feel perfect. It feels strange. Off. Uncomfortable. Because Tim looks at him like he knows things about him. He wants to ask what else he knows, besides the name he uses in Gotham. Bruce wants to ask which name he knows and either way Tim could answer wouldn't surprise him.
But he doesn't ask. He just watches the kid struggle to breathe instead. There had to be some kind of way to help him. To make it so it's not so hard on him. But he doesn't budge. He's not dressed to be sticking his nose in where it didn't belong.
After a minute of silence, Bruce hooks a shoulder up. "Inconvenient for who exactly? No one here knows who I am." Bruce's gaze is steady, suspicious, curious, unblinking. "Except you, it seems."
no subject
All of his life, Tim had thought there was no one alive who understood him, who was so like him. And here's the test: B sees him and what he says and means.
And it doesn't mean a damn thing.
Wild.
Something to ponder later, unless Tim wants to convince himself he's seeing a crack in the mask already. That he's seeing Batman concerned, for a fraction of a fraction of a second.
"Guess we'll see," he drawls. More to settle the ants under and over his ribcage than to convey a big feeling. Or lack of.
(Speaking of- where is Damian? That twerp is alw-- focus, Drake.)
"Questions? Comments? I've already bombarded you with mine."
no subject
Joe Chill gave him that with two bullets.
It's that moment that made Bruce's world shrink, coil into itself and push everything not caught in its center away. The heart couldn't beat, wound so tightly as it was, but at least it would never break.
Then he met Dick Grayson. Met him and let himself be stupid and foolish enough to love him and then he lost him and his world narrowed again.
There's no room for anyone else. There couldn't be. Bruce made sure of it.
There's a moment of quiet while he thinks about it. He had questions - about Milton and these folktales. About the force that's brought him and if he can use it to get back because there are pressing issues he needs to be getting back to.
He settles for something a little less dire. "Who are you really?"
no subject
He thinks of the Monarch Theatre, gutted and renovated and his. Of summer days and designer sneakers at the country club, and briefcases and suits and shaking the hands of men who think he's gullible. There's tabloids and press conferences and sneak shots of dates with his fiancée. Tim thinks of all those things he is not. (But maybe had been, and maybe could be.)
"If you don't even know me, then what's it matter?" He grouses, voice now appropriately sullen and breathy because the next thing he says is, "I'm from Somerset. Interned for Kord, moved, did like... a third of a half of a day touring one of--one of Bruce Wayne's pharmaceutical chemistry labs because I thought it'd be interesting." And Zo hadn't been thrilled with that stunt, actually.
But he, like the other Interlopers who were here a week ago, is fresh off a crash course in mind-reading and Tim knows all of those little secrets that are so easy to let slip- if one doesn't practice tamping them down. Or forsaking entirely.
Tim figures he's not trying to be nontransparent but Callum Janus Corcoran can only say so much to Jack Shaw: he's not going to jump at the chance to give a report. It's a learning curve. But Tim will learn. He's a quick study sometimes, to the imagined dismay of anyone who had met Tim Drake during their time in the Northern Territories.
"Here? I don't know. Apparently I'm suffering from face-blindness."
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They were out of the way. As much as Bruce could be in a room full of people he didn't know, not even in a passing way. So he thought maybe the distance would be enough to coax something substantial he could pin down out of Callum. But it doesn't quite yield him what he's looking for.
It's a sort of answer to his question. But it's not a very satisfying one. It's all very typical, very mundane for someone who could spot him when he did not want to be seen. Approach him with things that'll probably fit. It's a puzzle and the pieces go together, but they're forced together and it makes the picture come out wrong.
Doesn't stop him from being friendly. Doesn't stop him from being wary either.
"Did you find anything interesting at the pharmaceutical labs?"
no subject
The boy brings a hand to rub some of the dryness of the fire out of his eyes and the bags under his eyes have bags. And that's just fine with him. (Because while Bruce had Alfred at his lowest, when he grew into what he now is, Tim had had Bruce. And it means he can't throw away progress on account of inconvenience.) "I don't know," he says.
"We had a... blizzard. About two weeks ago," Tim says. It's easy to give up hope of being graced by some common sense-- it would be demented, and detrimental, to keep trying. "And there's a bear spirit hunting us. I'm sure it scared some people into the forests before the storm really hit. Before then, some people had gotten lost in the caves by not revealing their deepest, darkest secrets to each other. When I arrived, I was chained to a chair in the old slaughterhouse. Anubis showed up and heads were going to roll if we didn't spill the tea and say everything we never wanted to say."
And what he means to say, now, because he has just enough patience to spell it out, he guesses, is, "So I really need to suggest that... you focus more on helping others, now. Instead of looking for ways to help yourself."
(So maybe that's all there is to it. Maybe that's why Tim's got a gun knowing his dad is rolling in his grave. Because it's not his job to make things easy. Tim got here by only wanting things to turn out right.)
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He looks at Tim, really looks at the kid and for a moment (just a moment) he thinks about Dick. He doesn't know why. Doesn't let the thought linger longer than necessary because thinking about Dick for too long always twists up his insides in a way that takes too long to sort out. But it's there. Bruce looks, but he also listens. Help others. Not yourself.
It's a second or two before he moves. Shifts away from Tim so there's room to sit where he's sitting. Maybe it's a mistake. Maybe this kid's got a shank and is gonna sink it in his ribs the second he sits down. Maybe he won't sit at all. Just leave Bruce to look silly after the effort he's put in to make room for him. But there's room anyway.
"Why don't you sit. You look tired."
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It's like the notion never crossed his mind until now, how good this little spot of B's is for people-watching. (But of course it did.)
After the blizzard, Tim is sick of this place, the Community Center. And that's because he ditched the party halfway through. But the tides of bodies ebbing and going and growing and thinning is different with the promise of new faces, and the people of Milton are good. There's a strained warmth here that's not seen outside.
"I was gonna scram," he confesses to Jack. "I'm not exactly being of service here."
And it kind of stings that Bruce would rather be all damp n stuff than change clothes but like-- whatever.
On the subject of hunting,
"Did you see where the guy with the big hair went to? He owes me lunch money."
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"I disagree." The clothes are still next to him, by his feet on the side opposite Tim. Even if he's not bothered to change (he will. He doesn't trust this kid, but what he's in now isn't suited for the locale), he appreciates the effort Tim went through to find things for him. He is a lot of things, but ungrateful he would not be. "You've done more than enough for me."
But if he wants to go, Bruce won't stop him. He has questions, but from the looks of things, he isn't going anywhere any time soon. They'd keep. The town's small enough, Bruce is sure he'll see Tim again. Even if he has to make it happen.
"If he comes by I'll let you know."
cw for passing mention for disordered eating
(Even Jason's lost muscle mass in his time here, and Tim tends to subject himself to questionable hunger strikes. Not to mention he wasn't a wall of solid muscle to begin with.)
Arms crossed where he lays his head, Tim suddenly feels the deluge: the ugly kick of truth that he isn't getting recognition because there is none to dredge up, the lukewarm syrup where the blood coursing through his veins ought to be, and the pulse-pulse-prick at the base of his head that should be concerning.
Defeated but concerned more with projecting his outward dissatisfaction with... this, Tim lets the silence hang for that blissful passing moment. And then, through the hypnotic crackle of the fire, Tim insists, just for Batman's ears (a practiced sort of hiss, words clear but low but never whispered,) "I'm seriously supposed to go around calling you Jack Shaw?"
Because once he gets the answer, he figures-- it's fine.
He'll make it work.
It's got to be fine when it simply can't be anything else. If anything, the lack of option should be thrilling.
Should be.
no subject
He would have lost interest in Tim minutes ago if they'd met under normal circumstances. He would flashed that billion dollar smile, offered some half assed excuse and went on his way. But ever since he sat next to Bruce, Bruce's attention's been undivided on him, even if his eyes were not. Because Bruce observes and Tim's not the only person of interest in the room.
Tim wants something from him Bruce thinks but isn't sure what else he has left to give. He's given his gratitude, given his name, fake as it was. But it's a shield. It fortifies him, gives him some space to regroup. Put himself in order. Being Bruce Wayne was a lot of work.
But, If there is more, he wished the kid would speak it plainly. Even if he liked to think he was a good prediction model, he wasn't a mind reader.
When he gets it, in a practiced hiss still a little too loud to be a whisper, Bruce adjusts in his seat. He's not uncomfortable. He just wants to look at Tim.
"Only if I'm supposed to call you Callum."
There's his answer. He could do what he wants with it.
no subject
what can change?
This is a blank canvas that Tim's rarely (not never) pondered having access to. There's something about the man that Tim can't pinpoint, a gut feeling he has that there's a deliberate picking and prodding that will undress a precarious and hastily packed wound. But detective work isn't about gut feelings, no matter what Hollywood will tell you.
And Tim isn't interested in unpacking painful reminders, not again. His interest, latent now and overshadowed by helpless questioning of his own role if he's not in Bruce Wayne's life, extends to complicated and confusing (and utterly basic) desire that the guy doesn't freaking go and die on him-- B, any iteration of B, is intelligent and useful.
And Jack Shaw isn't, because that is the name of a person who only wants to think he knows better.
Bruce shifts and Tim deflects, and his eyes find no less than half a dozen people in this same room who Shaw can point at, call over, and ask, What's this kid's name and they'd shrug or look at Shaw with some pity for having to share space with the fuck-up (March's cutting but apt descriptor) and they'd say, Oh, that's Tim Drake.
How long until Jack makes some friends?
(Remember kids, the only difference between screwing around and science is writing it down.
So Tim will make a note of today.)
"Well, good luck," Cal says. Head still down, jaw still feeling like it could take a can or two of WD-40.
Last time, he offered his farmhouse and his fire and his lab- his notes on blood and contamination and his poor hoard of tech to go along with the bitchy mood of feeling inadequate before his dad.
Change is supposed to be good, though.
Awkward and painful, but good.
It's fine.
no subject
The deflection Bruce notes and it quiets him. Makes him think, as if he hasn't been doing enough that during this conversation.
Still, however horrified it might have made him, if Bruce knew that there was some version of himself who continued taking on children as soldiers, it would also make a macabre kind of sense. Having and losing Dick had shut that door for him so firmly that it may as well no longer exist. But he wasn't opposed to using any weapon he needed for the mission. And there is some part of him that understands sometimes the best weapons are the people he's trained to be just as brutal as he is.
Maybe it's something he can see in Tim, like a latent fingerprint, a dusting of someone who could be his mirror image. And if that's true, Tim's deception makes a lot more sense too. Because Tim would know better, wouldn't he? Not to give away anything.
That meant taking a step back. It meant not pushing.
It meant waiting. Bruce is patient enough for that. It's fine.
"I think I'll need something a little more substantial than luck, Al." The bag is still near his feet. He's off to a good enough start. "If you change your mind about telling the truth, come find me."
Finally. Finally, Bruce reaches for the bag and gets up to go change.
leaving you with a brief cw: past animal/pet death
Cal's closed his eyes by the time Shaw snarks about luck as if he wasn't offered the treasure of knowledge first-thing. It's the ear ache and headache, the ache at Tim's neck and between his shoulders that ultimately made it unbearable to keep track of bodies that just aren't dead yet. (Yikes.)
(Tim knows he was never supposed to think that way and he's past wondering how to make his apologies mean anything, when the thoughts will snake back the next time he forces his eyes shut. He misses Kon, and Cass, and Steph. His brother. He misses his dad. He misses all the people who would keep him from sinking.)
The fire cackling away is less likely to remind him of the barn and all of his dead bunnies because there's the chattering of people around them- no matter how isolated Bruce wanted to imagine himself being, there were too many voices to tune out. Tim's breathing evened out to an unassuming shallowness when there's the rustle of bags and the weight of the man's body on the bench is no more.
--wouldn't be the first time that Tim zonks the hell out on a table in the Community Center.
But even warmth without the reek of burning fur can only keep Tim still for so long. When Shaw returns, if Shaw returns, Cal will have found Big Hair-- an easy hunt, since he'd tracked the guy's pattern in pingpong-ing in that search for what must be for the old electric guitar.
Someone must-a tossed it in a fire. Maybe along with the amp.
(And damn, that sucks.)