"What the...?" Tim groaned in confusion as he turned over in bed and opened his eyes to soft sheets weird against his skin and thick curtains blinding the morning light. Filled with excitement and fear, he came awake in his head. He wasn't in the dorm room. This was the main bedroom of Wayne Manor.
The alarm clock beside the bed wasn't turned on, but the digital display illuminated 5:00 AM. Tim shot up in a flash. Only the faraway chime of a grandfather clock really broke the silence. He had never been there before, yet he knew he precisely knew where he was. Memories came to him, yet they were not his. They were Tim Drake's memories, yet he was Tim, a college student hailing from the real world. Or at least he was, until he landed in the body of a young boy who would eventually become Robin.
Tim threw his legs over the side of the bed and let his feet fall upon the cold marble floor. He breathed deeply and tried to clear the nimble thoughts that jumbled his mind. There was the light scent of leather and polish in the air, and something else besides… delicious. Like Alfred's famous blueberry muffins. He knew Alfred, yet not because he read comics about him; he knew things because of memories not his own. That thought was titillating and terrifying. He needed to keep his cool; he didn't know what was going on, but he had to play the part.
As he walked quietly to the window, he saw his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at him had Bruce Wayne's dark hair and bright blue eyes, but Tim knew the reflection staring back wasn't just the idea of his mind. It was real. He was Tim Drake. The feeling was unreal, but the memories with which that knowledge brought were crystal clear, like it had happened to him. He remembered the structure of the mansion, the feel of the Batcave beneath his feet, and even the sound of Bruce's gruff voice as he barked out orders.
He pulled on some sweatpants and a white t-shirt from the closet, feeling the fabric on his skin. The clothes were a little too big, loose upon his body, but they were way better than no clothes at all. The concrete floor was cold on his bare feet as he walked down the silent hallways of the mansion. The walls were lined with portraits of the Wayne family: each had a different story that he knew quite well. He hastened his heartbeat just a bit as he walked by the picture of Bruce with his parents.
The pain of losing them felt like a dull ache in his chest, a feeling that was not his, yet somehow his.
Tim reached the gym, and the door was already ajar. Bruce must already have gotten in, since Tim heard his fists pummeling the punching bag in a rhythmic manner. It sounded good-the now almost familiar beat from his comic book dreams. He took one deep breath and pushed open the door wider; the smell of sweat and hard work fumed over him. Bruce looked up-the towel was wrapped around his neck. He searched Tim's eyes for a moment before a look of comprehension crossed his face. "You're up," he said laconically.
Big, the gym had all kinds of training equipment that any athlete would be jealous of.
This place was nothing like Tim had read; far different actually. Mats and equipment to train with-lots of weights, a climbing wall, different weapons hung on the walls. Bruce pointed to the middle of the room where gymnastics rings were hanging from the ceiling. "Let's start with some basics," he said, with a serious but not harsh tone of voice.
Tim stood under the rings, his hands shaking a little as he reached up to take hold of them. He remembered how many times he had done this on the road to readiness, but those were recollections-nothing as it felt right now. He pulled himself up with ease, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders bitched for the first few seconds before the familiarity kicked in. Bruce watched close, his face firm to a lockdown, but not heavy. "Good," he said, "now stay balanced. This isn't a show, it's about discipline."
Tim nodded. He let his legs dangle in the air, but froze his body into an absolute stillness. The burning in his arms grew stronger with every second, yet he didn't show it. Consciously, he listened to his breathing, falling into rhythm with a nearby metronome.
The only things that could be heard in the room were their breathing and the rings creaking every now and then. Bruce leaned a bit closer to him; his eyes locked onto Tim's face. "You're doing good, but remember, you're not just putting on a costume. You're becoming a symbol."
It was in those words that Tim felt the weight of how grave a responsibility being Robin really was. He pushed the doubt that had all but overcome him aside. "I know," he said calmly. Bruce nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Then let's get to work."
The succeeding hours turned out pretty buzzing. Tim now learned to balance, tumble, and fight. His mind was high, while his body moved instinctively. Bruce was one tough teacher, not stopping at limits but flinging them open far beyond. Every time Tim fell, he got up. For the need to succeed, he had to be Robin. While sparring, Tim had seen something weird. The world morphs into equations and probabilities: shadow and light become an integral calculus formula, the angles of attack and defense, given by angles in complex sets of formulae; thus, the path to victory suddenly feels real, like a math concept.
It was then that he really became starry-eyed: he knew he had a new power, a gift from the universe which would make him so different from any Robin that ever was.
Kept it to himself, he said nothing to Bruce. Not easy to comprehend, too hard to reveal to the world. Gruesome exercises, nothing managed to stop Tim in this new track of his mind. Easy exercises to breeze through, his body executed the pattern-sequences that streamed across in front of him.
That concluded the session, and even though Tim ached all over, refuse to show weakness did he. Bruce wiped the sweat off his forehead and nodded his head in approval. "Good job, Tim. You have potential." The words rang in his ears, showing him he could do this.
"Thanks, Bruce," Tim got out in a hoarse voice; it had been a mighty effort. He slumped to the floor, his legs wobbly, trying to get up.
"Don't get too cocky, boy," Bruce said with the slightest of grins. "You have a ways to go before you are ready for crime in Gotham.
Tim could not stop the returning grin. "I know, but I'll be there."
Bruce tapped him softly on the shoulder. "I know you will. Now go take a shower. Alfred has breakfast ready, and we need to get you ready for school."
Tim merely nodded and headed toward the shower, his mind in disarray. The water poured over him in sheets, warming his muscles and washing off the grime from this morning's workout.
This couldn't seriously be his life. The shower was huge, the water coming from every which way, the stream heavier than he'd ever experienced. He sucked in a deep breath, letting the warmth wrap itself around him, the steam rising high around him in a soothing fog. Coming out, feeling somewhat more human, he found fresh clothes laid out and waiting for him. They would fit better than those he had worked out in-indeed, they would seem to be tailored just for him. He put on a pair of jeans and a red sweatshirt, the color somehow important to him. Maybe it was the universe gently nudging him on toward his future.
He went downstairs into the dining room, whence came the savory smell of eggs and bacon, and his stomach growled noisily. Bruce was already seated, reading the newspaper, unreadable as usual behind his mask of calm. "Good morning, Master Tim," Alfred said, with only a hint of sparkle in his eye. "I do hope you slept and trained well?"
Tim sat down, a little overwhelmed still. "It was… intense," he managed to say, trying to sound smooth. Not that he wanted to say anything, not yet. He needed to play this just right.
"It's always strong feelings when you begin something new," Bruce said, eyes still on the paper. "But you got to keep going. You never know what you can do until you try your best." Tim nodded, and his tummy growled noisily while Alfred set a plate with scrambled eggs, done soft, and crispy bacon before him. It was fragrant, and suddenly, he felt really hungry.
He took a bit into his mouth; the taste was good, and it was a breather from his roaring thoughts. The eggs tasted just fine; the flavor was appropriate, and the smoky taste of bacon suitably salty. He had never appreciated such little things before. "I've packed your bag, Tim," said Alfred as he gave Bruce a hot cup of coffee. "You are pretty caught up today because you need to see your teacher after school to talk about how you're doing in school."
Tim felt his stomach tighten. He had no clue how well Tim Drake was doing in school, and he couldn't afford to blow it. "Thanks, Alfred," he said, doing his best to sound offhanded.
Bruce had folded the newspaper and brought the coffee cup up to his lips, but his eyes never left Tim's face. "You will be alright, son," he said. "Just be honest and do your best.
Tim nodded and took a deep breath. "I will," he said, trying to sound more sure than he actually felt. He began to grasp his situation: he had to live in both worlds, one as a schoolboy and the other as a superhero-in-training. It was a confused contrast, but he wasn't going to let that consume him.
The breakfast was quiet, bar the sounds of cutlery on fine china, set out in a fancy dining room. Tim had lots of questions going through his head that he did not want to ask. How did he get here? What of his old life? Was he ever going to see his friends and family again? He cast those thoughts aside and turned to the food.
Very tasty, a big difference from the cafeteria food he had grown up with.
After breakfast, Tim carefully did what Alfred had instructed him to do, preparing for his first day at the private boarding school. The suit he put on, which Alfred had selected, was just right; the cloth fell kindly on his skin. The tie was bright red, the color somehow suggesting 'danger' and 'adventure'.
At the door, Bruce handed him a nice black backpack. "Your school supplies," he said, "and a little extra." Tim nodded, feeling the weight drop upon his shoulders. Inside were a bunch of neat gadgets that would have made James Bond jealous. He couldn't help but feel excited as he touched the things inside.
The ride to school was really tense. Bruce's car was sleek, smooth, and silent as it cut its way through the flow of early morning traffic. Tim looked out the window at passing Gotham in shades and lights, alive, energetic, and full of secrets. He knew that soon he would be with Bruce out there, fighting to keep it that way.
They came upon the huge gates at the entrance of the school and Tim felt a wave of apprehension begin to seize him. He had never been to a place like this, not in this world. Murky were the memories of Tim Drake's school life, full of images of friends he had never made.
He took a great breath and stepped out of the car, trying to pay no heed to the other students staring at him. Their eyes had curiosity in them and a tint of something else he couldn't quite place.
The day flew by-classes, hallways, head full of busy thoughts and math problems-but all the newly acquired skills helped him not to stress too much about school work.
He answered questions before they were fully asked, his mind always ahead of the lesson. Teachers liked him, other students looked at him with wonder and doubt - he had been the new kid and was already at the top of the class. At lunch, Tim sat down with a cluster of friendly kids he knew from his school classes before the day that changed his life. They spoke about school drama, homework, and just about everything, and for a little while, Tim almost forgot the truth. Yet, the secret still weighed upon him, a reminder of his double life. He felt a little sad about the life he had left, and the friends and family who were now just distant memories.
The school bell ran, just like that, signaling the end of the day. Tim was pretty excited, knowing he had been scheduled to meet his teacher in the meeting room. Mrs. Fairchild was uptight-an uptight woman with that incisive look that always just seemed to bore into his soul. She wasn't supposed to take crap from anyone, which Tim knew he needed some preparation for.
He came into the room; the door creaked softly. Mrs. Fairchild looked up from her papers. "Ah, Timothy," she said in that keen voice. "Please, sit down." Tim sat down in the chair, putting his hands neatly on the desk, trying to forget how fast his heart was beating. He had looked at Tim Drake's school record and knew he got straight A's, but keeping up this image was… stressful. "Your work has been great," Mrs. Fairchild started, peering over the rim of her glasses. "But I feel like I've noticed a slight shift in your attention lately. Is everything okay?
The feeling was like someone had pressed a knife to Tim's throat. He had not seen it coming. "Yeah, everything's fine," he lied, trying to sound relaxed. "Just getting used to the new school year."
Mrs. Fairchild looked at him a moment, her eyes narrowing. "Well, anytime you need to talk, you can always come in," she said, her voice going a little nicer. "Now, let's review how you are doing."
Tim nodded, still nervous as she pulled out a file and started to look at his assignments; on every paper were comments in red ink where Tim did more than what was expected of him. It felt kind of weird seeing another person's life unfolding right in front of him while he knew that he was the one living it.
"You know, we could allow you to skip some grades, promoting you straight to High School; we have done it to students in the past," Mrs. Fairchild suggested as she looked directly into Tim.
Tim's palms began to sweat. He'd read all about how smart Tim Drake was, how sharp, but this was different; he was living it, feeling the weight of the expectation that went along with it. "No, I'm okay here," he said, hoping his voice didn't shake too hard. "I just had a tough start of the year."
Mrs. Fairchild nodded in satisfaction with his response. "Alright," she said, shutting the file. "Just remember, if you need anything, I am here to help." Tim left the room, feeling like he had dodged some kind of bullet, but when he had cooled off, he realized that he didn't need to have been concerned. She had only wanted to see if he was okay.
It was time to go home. Tim walked through the big school entrance, and the setting sun stretched the shadows in the courtyard. He felt his classmates looking at him, their whisperings following him like a shadow. He was different now, not just a new student, but something more.
The ride home was much quieter than that morning. Alfred and Tim sat in comfortable silence. As the gates of Wayne Manor shut behind them, Tim felt a very odd sense of relief. A place of safety where Tim Drake and a boy from the real world could coexist. Dropping his backpack onto the marble floor of the great foyer, he took a moment to appreciate the view of the estate that was his home now. The marble floors, the big staircase, the high ceiling-that all but overwhelmed him with its magnificence.
He went upstairs to his room; the only sound was that produced by the soft echoing of his footsteps. Homework worried him, yet the excitement of the new life as Robin urged him on. He sat himself down at the old desk in his room; it was as if the golden light of the Tiffany lamp cast its warm shine upon the sprawled textbooks and papers facing him. The room almost welcomed him, he thought, telling him it had waited for his return.
Tim opened his math book, full of hard equations, but they suddenly felt easy compared to the problems he had earlier. Yet, he knew he just couldn't put this part of his life aside. The whole point to being Robin was balance, allowing him to maintain the safety of his secret identity. He needed to continue with the charade that was Tim Drake: an eager student, gifted with detective work.
He went on to solve them step by step, as if he learned it all a long time ago. Before him, the numbers danced in patterns and answers, all from seemingly nowhere. The soft noises of the mansion around him were reassuringly dull compared to the din inside his head. At last the final equation was solved, the last sentence parsed. With a sigh, Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes as the weight of the day settled heavy upon his shoulders, like some heavy blanket.
He crossed over to the bed; his mind churning with the implications of this new-accessed math intuition. It was a gift, yet somehow a curse. How was he ever to explain his sudden brilliance to anyone? That's the neat answer you don't.