Archive of Our Own

“Now, do you recall our core values, Timothy?” Mother had queried. He could still feel her phantom tug at his lapel; the way his collar itched his neck, her breath by his ear.

With a jagged nod, Tim replied, “Delicate, sharp, and precise.” 

“Very good,” Father had clasped his shoulder with a calloused hand, “But what do they entail?”

“Delicate. Poise yourself with grace; I am a Drake— my every action reflects upon this family.”

For the thirteenth time in the past week, Tim raised the camera to his face, the viewfinder just grazing his eyelashes. Blurred scenery panned before his eyes as he cradled the lense, jittery and blue-tinted.

“Sharp. Our posture should never waver. I must keep my shoulders back, my chin up. If someone degrades myself or you— my parents— the response must be short, sharp, direct, and deadly.”

Without so much as a squint, the boy adjusted the focus, twisting the wheel until utmost clarity was paved before him. Like a broken guitar string, the scenery snapped into crispness.

“Precise. Every detail has a meaning; I shall be illustrative in my vocabulary, mindful in my manners. If I am uncertain of the truth, I shall not speak.”

Tim scanned his surroundings before closing in on his subject; tonight, it was a crow, with feathers of deepest cobalt. He zoomed in carefully; the boy would not overshoot, nor would his hand waver; he was a Drake, and Drakes never made mistakes.

As his index finger found the photography button, he clicked down once, fast.

CHI-CLICK. FLASH!

For half a moment, the cemetary was alive with a synthetic blue glow, as if a bolt of steel lightning had struck the Earth. Startled into the land of the living, Tim’s crow cawed, croaked and screeched into the abyss, away into the night, feathered wings flapping like thunder.

“I apologise, but it’s the only way. Sometimes we have to sacrifice something of our own for the greater good.” The boy echoed the words of his father all those years ago, for he frequently conversed with the birds, “In your case it’s sleep.”

Sleep is for the weak ; that was the single thing Tim and his parents agreed on. With all his twisted moralities, Jack Drake had one admirable quote.

Although, Tim somewhat doubted his Father expected the context of said quote to revolve around awakening a bird whose voice could call the dead.

Contrary to popular belief, ravens were not the preferred companions of Death— that title belonged to the crow. 

(Despite this, when famed ‘Death Seeker’ Agnes Hallow sacrificed a goat and witnessed the cryptic reaper wondering their streets to harvest souls wa-a-a-a-ay back in mediaeval times, she had not the knowledge to differentiate between the birds flanking Death’s side, nor the ability— apparently— to keep her talents hidden. She was promptly burnt at the stake for writing before she could so much as correct her findings.

Once, Tim saw her; Agnes was one of the few ghosts whose soul was bound to a physical object. Of Course, he feigned ignorance when she begged all Lifers to “Burn the Bloody Book at LET ME GO!!”, as Tim was a Drake, and setting a priceless artefact ablaze in a public location would undoubtedly tarnish his family’s reputation.)

Quiet fell upon the graveyard; everything stopped. Aridity triumphed over humidity, a welcome chill with wings of cold, fractals of frost following its trail. Crickets ceased their chirruping; a fox’s screeching bled away to nothingness; the distant crow’s call died upon its bill.

All was silent, all was still.

Tim held his breath for the thirteenth time that week. He dare not move, nor twitch, nor speak; so much as the slightest dispersion could ruin everything.

And then, it happened.

Had he not been fashioned into a lifestyle of details and over analysis, the boy would not have noticed the minute shift in the air, the way a silvery light of almost dust began to form, seeping into a silhouette of intangible matter.

Then, as if a sculptor took a scalpel to the being’s visage, details emerged upon the face, shimmering into reality before his very eyes. Tim failed to repress a smile from tugging at his lips; witnessing the birth of a ghost was rare, after all. Especially a rebirth in such an amicable matter.

‘Oh…’

Perhaps amicable was the incorrect term. 

Glazing the ghost’s translucent skin were multiple layers of once oozing blood, frozen in time from the dead boy’s time of soul reaping. With a frown, Tim acknowledged how the responsible action to take, here, would be to perform a reverse-séance on his own jacket, so that ghost could use such as a makeshift cloth to wipe his wounds.

‘Shame. I quite like this jacket. Hopefully Jason will like it, too.’

Perhaps it would keep him warm, when Robin inevitably returned to ‘The Beyond’, or wherever he had been summoned from. Jewish himself, the boy couldn’t quite recall the religion— if any— of his idol. Perhaps Tim had just called him down from Heaven, or Nirvana, or the Next World… that final scenario would be mildly awkward. 

Tim didn’t think he would like it much, if he had been reincarnated and forced to leave his new body behind in favour of a neighbour with a ghoul addiction.

‘Maybe this was a  mistake…’ He shifted, as Jason’s final form solidified in the between realm, ‘What if I just created a Vengeful Spirit?’

The gasping was instantaneous.

Like a newborn deer, Jason staggered into the new reality, heaving and wheezing as if raised from the rubble of Pompeii, coughs racking his body with every phantom breath. 

Tim winced in sympathy; it took many ghosts months before they realised they didn’t have to breathe. With a death as violent as Jason’s, no doubt his lungs would be laced to the brim with carbon monoxide. Every breath would feel like fire, like a burning in his veins, as if he were being suffocated again and again and again.

‘I can’t leave him like this,’ The boy’s tongue flicked over his lips in contemplation, rocking back on his heels from his crouched position. He knew that new ghosts weren’t to be disturbed until an hour after their arrival, but… It seemed morally wrong to just let nature take its course when he had the gift to intervene.

From behind the gravestone from which he hid, Tim rose to his feet. As predicted, Jason seemed not to notice; he was too busy trying to live. That was another common misconception beings of the afterlife endured; many were so hung up on their prior existence, they forgot to adapt to their new reality.

“Hey!” Tim called out, but ever ignorant due to his essential death echo, Jason ignored him. Trying again, the boy hollered again, “HEY!”

The coughs fell silent. Robin froze. 

Then, like a mechanical bird, Jason c-c-creaked his head towards the sound. Bile rose in Tim’s throat at the sight; a half shattered mask hung limp from the young vigilante’s face, shadowed by a black eye and red-stained cheek. Scrapes, cuts and slices burden him, with a particularly vicious wound clinging to Robin’s chin.

‘Well, at least he’s not breathing now.’ Tim thought, and wow— wasn’t that a lovely thought, ‘At least he’s not in pain.’

Thought too soon.

Like a broken engine about to explode, the rugged breaths picked up once more, layered and visceral, wretched and agonising. With staggered steps, Jason started forward.

‘NopeNopeNope! POSSIBLE POSSESSION NOPE!!’

In a flurry of awkward limbs, Tim stumbled back over his own two feet, narrowly avoided hitting his head on Martha Wayne’s headstone, and spoiled the untouched grass that resided there. An embodiment of horror, Jason loomed over him, ever inching closer; blue eye wide, white eye almost glowing before the moonlight.

“You don’t have to breathe!” He cried, fumbling with the camera if— worse came worse— he needed a swift, stunning method of escape, “Jason, please!”

An excruciating laugh erupted from Jason’s gut, and Tim hadn’t noticed until just then— a weapon was poised in the ghost’s hand; a batarang bathed in black-red— but then—

Then, to Tim’s abject terror, the ghoul mocked, “I don’t have to breathe? I don’t have to BREATHE?! Funny, that’s what the Jo- Joker said— when he—” Another gut-wrenching hack; this time, Robin doubled over, collapsing to the ground, one hand digging into the soil of his own grave.

Mind buzzing, Tim’s instincts screamed ‘ RUN!’, yet his heart ran circles with his morals, relaying ‘HELP HIM.’

“Plea- please . You have to trust me, I—”

“ Trust you.” Jason snarled, his penumbra flickering so much to the point Tim feared a Vengeful Spirit would be formed before his very eyes,   “I don’t even know who you are!”

“I’m Tim! Tim Drake, I live next door—” He hadn’t been killed yet he hadn't been killed yet he wasn’t going to die— “I— Jason it’s bad, it’s really really bad, and getting worse!”

“ What’s getting worse? Why’re you here?” Jason’s hoarse voice hitched. He froze, alert, like a meerkat sensing danger. Apparently, he then deduced Tim was the danger. Fury coursing through his veins, he bellowed, “Did BRUCE bring you here? Has he replaced me?!”

A breeze howled awake from the North, the telltale sign of a storm gathering in the sky as grey waves of clouds approached, cracking with lightning; a deadly tide.

“NO! No, of course not— again, I’m the neighbour kid, and way too scrawny to be Robin—- and— and Bruce is what’s getting worse!” Tim squeaked, yet the ghost seemed not to hear him.

The air, once dry, thickened with precipitation; a fog rolled over the ground, hiding Jason’s feet from view as he levitated closer. Tim couldn’t quite decipher the look in the ghost’s eye as he opened his imbrued mouth to speak, when an onslaught of coughing like gunfire tore from his chest.

“Breathing isn’t necessary for ghosts!” The neighbour kid reiterated, squeezing his eyes shut to combat the assault of the breeze against his face,  “You don’t have to trust me— you don’t have to like me— but please, just— if nothing else, just test the theory.”

The horrid sound progressed; for a while, Tim deemed himself ignored, but then— then, with one final rasping inhale, all sound ceased. The harsh hurricane drew to a close, instantaneous, like a vacuum sucking the air from the area.

Tim risked a glance up; Jason was drifting back down, uncertain, wary. Somehow, he looked younger; somehow, he looked like he did at school, when Tim would pass him in the library.

Quiet outwardly, noises in his head.

Silence stretched between them, a contemplation of reality.

“He didn’t save me.” Jason whispered, “He left me there, with him and— and—” His voice cracked, shattered, his knees gave out, “He didn’t even avenge me.”

Vengeance; that was The Dark Knight’s number two rule, right after rule one: No Killing. Ever.

With every coming day, Tim was alarmingly close to witnessing the death of that rule; Batman’s violent tendencies were becoming undeniably more apparent following the death of Jason Todd.

“I know.” Taking a risk, Tim scooted beside him, tense, “But— you know what he prioritises over that…”

Robin scoffed, prodding his numb wounds as he listed, “Justice. Morality. Killing people with medical bills or insanity by Arkham. Neglecting Crime Alley.”

“So basically…” Tim trailed off, awkward.

“Anything but taking a life, yeah I know.” Jason scowled, “It’s dumb.”

Unsure as to how to tell a dead kid that their pseudo Father was treading the fine line to villain hood unless they intervened, the alive kid took the easy way out, and unzipped his hoodie.

Under the ghost’s curious gaze, Tim withdrew some lily seeds from his pocket, crushed them, and scattered them over the jacket. Then, he plucked a strand from his hair, scooped some damp soil from over Jason’s grave, and distributed that, too.

After brushing his hands clean on his muddied jeans, Tim closed his eyes, losing his night vision to the eigengrau, and held his palms over his soon-to-be-sacrificed red hoodie.

“What are you doing?” Robin enquired.

Remaining silent, the boy held his position a second, then three seconds more, before releasing one booming clap paired with his eyes snapping open.

Pins and needles danced across his vision, his cheeks tingling with a strange sense of radiation, lips cold and numb against his own skin. Like they always did during reverse seances, Tim’s hands were ablaze with cool fire, vibrating in the dark.

Where Jason’s ghoulish abilities caught the Northern wind, Tim’s collected the South, a flurry of whispers, of voices of the Unseen reverberating around his head. A peculiar scent lingered in the breeze; his sight locked onto his favourite jacket.

‘Goodbye,’ He thought, picking it up from the ground, ‘You were good at keeping me warm.’

As if dragged through a rippling pool, the very fabric of the hoodie began to shift, from opaque to transparent to translucent, wobbling with uncertainty through realms; realms only ‘ Death Seekers’ could see.

In the reflective darkness of Jason’s headstone, Tim caught a glance of his appearance; his hair ruffled forwards, singed with blue tips, eyes glowing white, skin pale as snow. Then, he turned towards his ghoul.

Tim quirked a smirk at Jason’s startled expression, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The actual ghost narrowed his eyes, then, “ Haha , very funny. What the heck did you do?”

“I performed a reverse séance; they’re not overly complicated, nor really, but—”

“Wait,” Jason cut him off, looking off put, as if a realisation had just happened, “Wait, I’ve been wandering around the manor for ages, and no one could see me. You can see me. Why can you see me? Are you some kind of ghost, too?”

“Oh! No! Not a ghost; I’m a Death Seeker. I suppose I summoned you.” Tim replied; summoning was far easier to explain than his whole life story , after all. 

That version would feature multiple moments of his life hanging in balance, five face offs with Death, being locked away by his parents, and a truckload of trauma. Not to mention all the running around behind Batman’s back and providing anonymous tips to authorities as of how people actually died and—

“Can anyone summon me?” Jason asked, shifting.

“No, only a select few of us, and it’s a— it’s a complicated process.” Again, that was putting it lightly.

“Oh.” Jason replied, “What’s a Death Seeker?”

“Uh…” Tim straightened his posture, ‘Delicate, Sharp and Precise’ ringing through his mind. He had to be careful of his answer, as to avoid CPS from hunting him when he inevitably convinced Jason to talk to Bruce, “ I am a Death Seeker.” 

Robin was clearly unsatisfied by that answer, but seemed to come to the conclusion that Tim wasn’t going to elaborate. He drew attention back to the ghostly hoodie, pointing, “Can I…?”

“Of course.” Tim replied, power draining and adrenaline quelling as he handed over the semi-tangible object, “You can use it to wipe your wounds, if you like.”

Screwing up his nose as if acknowledging a rancid smell, Robin shook his head, side eyeing Tim, “Are you kiddin’? This thing is nice, I’m not ruining it with blood.”

“But—”

Tim broke off as the boy unclasped his cape, the Kevlar lined material riddled with holes, stains and singe marks. Using the inside of the fabric, where it was soft, Jason brushed his injuries, wiping the immortalised blood from its place.

“If I had known I could do this before, I would have already,” Jason murmured, dabbing a particularly nasty patch near his shoulder, “But I was a little too busy re-dying every time I not-breathed.”

“You were a ghost before?” Tim’s mind seemed to have skipped over that key piece of information, “Where?”

Jason nodded towards the manor in turn, “They definitely can’t see me.”

Tim blinked, baffled that Jason had practically been right under his nose the entire time, “I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. Not your fault. I was getting lonely anyway. And pissed. Really pissed.” He paused, “Although, a little warning might be nice next time you decide to rearrange my particles.”

The boy cringed, “Sorry.”

“No worries.” Jason shrugged nonchalantly, “Sorry for snapping at you earlier.”

“It’s alright; it’s fully justified.”

The ghost wrinkled his nose, “Ugh, refrain from saying Justified again; sounds way too much like Justice.” He mocked, “I am vengeance; I am the night: I am justice personified but I’m all broody and in a Love Hate relationship with the Justice League.”

Tim giggled, covered his mouth, locked eyes with Jason, who was sparkling with mirth, and snorted into full blown laughter.

“What? C’mon, its not that funny! It’s just the truth!” The ghost pointed out, grinning.

“Your fa-a-ace!” The boy chortled, “You look just like him!”

“Like who?”

“Bruce does the exact same thing when he accidentally goes Batman at galas!”

“Wait, yeah, you’re right— hey!” Jason broke off suddenly, dropping his cloth-cape, “Hey, you know our identities!”

‘Uh oh uh oh uh oh!’

“Uhhh—”

Robin squinted at him, shrugging on the jacket, “C’mon, man, I’ve already let you off on two vague answers, at least give me this.”

Tim sighed, picking at the blades of grass that grew by the graves. ‘Well, Bruce is going to find out I know now, either way.’

“Alright,” He contemplated, “If I tell you, you must agree to something, first.”

“What?”

“Help Bruce.”

Jason stilled, “What’s going on with Bruce?”

‘He hasn’t noticed?’ Was Tim’s initial reaction, upon acknowledging the fact Jason Todd continued to share a home with his adoptive Dad, but then he realised; ‘Right, Jason’s been sick, and Bruce has been out— hang on, Jason’s a ghost! He has a physical tether!’

That meant that— if the correct ritual was performed— Tim could allow Batman to see Jason, too! That was game changing! It was only a matter of finding the correct object, which couldn’t be too challenging considering—

“Hellooooo? Earth to weird neighbour kid— sorry, I forgot your name—”

“It’s Tim.” Tim replied, absentmindedly. Perhaps he should have said Alvin.

“Right, right. Anyway, what’s going on with my Dad?”

‘Back to Dad; that’s good.’ Tim nodded, “Right. Uh. Long story short, Bruce is most likely going to attempt to avenge you.”

“He is?!” Jason exclaimed, the dis-embodied embodiment of elation.

“Yes, but listen ! Please. Sorry.” Tim stiffened at the realisation he was being rude to a ghost who was just about ready to go Vengeful not even an hour ago, “Sorry, look— Batman does not kill. We know this.”

Jason waved him off, “Yeah, yeah, sure. But he’s gonna break the rules for me! He does care—”

“Which we already established,” Tim affirmed.

“Which is why we should let nature take its course!”

“But that’s not in his nature.”

“It is now. Or it will be. Whatever— people adapt and change; this is evolution at its finest!” His form was flickering, Tim noted, blurred at the edges.

For a second, the boy glanced away, reiterating, “But Jason, if he kills—”

“ What?” Jason snapped, “What will happen if he kills? Does he lose Cub Scout points? His morality?”

“He loses himself.” 

A scoff, “No he won’t; he’s Batman. He’s stronger than that.”

“Jason, please—”

“No.”

“You have to understand—”

“No!” Jason roared, springing to his feet, a gust of wind following, “ You have to understand! You don’t know what it’s like to die!” (Tim did.) “You don’t know what it’s like to have your Dad abandon you!” (He knew better than anyone.) “You don’t know what it’s like to hope for something to happen, only for it to be torn away! I would kill for justice to be served— and now MY DAD WILL TOO!”

Tim knew all too well what that was like. He had known it all his life; and all his life, he had longed for his parents to slay the monsters they had subjected him to, but that would entail slaying themselves, as well.

He knew what longing for justice was. He dabbled with ideologies of revenge; dreaming of the day his parents would wake up and realise where they went wrong.

Jason was this close to justice; this close to his villain being ended, of vengeance being served— who was Tim to stop that?

But it couldn’t happen that way. It couldn’t. 

If Batman was lost to darkness, Gotham City would be subjected to unimaginable horrors.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

His throat thick, a heavy weight on his shoulders, he tried one last time, selfish, “Just— just talk to Bruce. You can— it sounds like you have a tether, so—”

“You can’t take this chance away from me, Tim.” Jason glared, tossing the red hood over his head, “I won’t let you. I refuse. It’s like a trolley problem; kill the one guy, save thousands of innocent families. Bruce’d never been able to pull that lever before, but now he can. If all it took for him to come to his senses was my death, then so be it … The clown has to die.”

With those final words, the ghost of Jason Todd turned to the dark, back to the shadowy shape of the manor which held him hostage.

Alone, Tim sank against Robin’s gravestone.

Defeat tugged at his mind.

He knew what had to be done, but the implications haunted him.

He was down to his last life, after all.

But it was the only way.

—

Tim Drake had not always seen ghosts.

As a child, roaming the halls of a lonesome manor had unnerved him. Mazes of corridors seemed to stretch on into the abyss, statues’ cold, burdened, dead eyes followed him around, and a few of the artefacts— most of which were coated with dust— radiated an awful, unexplainable, undiluted sense of dread.

His parents turned a blind eye, blasé to their ‘insolent child’s’ petrified mannerisms— rapid breathing, silent whimpers and tears… They called him improper; yet he did not sob. They scolded his behaviour; yet he was still afraid. They would fly out to a new place two days later; he was punished.

Tim Drake was five when he first saw a ghost; before that, he met Death.

When he was two, Death— a cryptic creature with ominous, hollow eyes, a skeletal face, and a cloak of sentient shadows — had wandered into the halls of the Drakes home for the first time. Death’s presence was not due to Tim, nor any beliefs the Drake family upheld— no— what drove Death to Tim’s door was his parent’s affinity to take what wasn’t theirs.

CASE POINT~~~~ Egypt, 1977 . The elder Drakes were on vacation in the pyramids, having spent an unfathomable amount of money on a new private jet purchased to mark their son’s first birthday. NOTE— the trip and jet were NOT for Tim. After sipping champagne on Jack’s cousin’s yacht and refusing to tip the waiters, the pair were approached by a man draped in odd, red robes, looking to sell them… a bizarre something.

It was common knowledge the Drakes were very proud. Very proud indeed. Not of their son— never of their son— but of their work; their reputation; their company; their fortune.

And so, when a ‘pungent poor person’ invaded their luxurious space, they— naturally— did something about it. That something followed their usual course of action, revised hundreds of times for an event just like that one:

Upturn the nose, fake a smile, toss some money the pauper’s way, and hope for the best.

Well, at the time, it seemed the odds were in their favour; only, the ragged man handed his bizarre something over, taking the gesture as payment. Without so much as a glance as of just what he had been handed, Jack Drake tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced once, twice, and—!

Right into his third suitcase.

Jack Drake’s third suitcase: oblong, leather, inscribed with the initials ‘J.T.D’.  

T’was far too inconvenient to carry around for long periods of time, yet rather valuable for the valuables it could take. A serving boy would be hired to carry the bag around, trailing after the Drakes like a lost puppy. Occasionally, as a reward , said serving boy would be allowed to forage for archaeological treasures as well— he wouldn’t be allowed to keep them, of course not, but the experience was worthy all the same.

Thus, once their venture surpassed and the Drakes whizzed off back to Gotham, they ceased to question the bizarre something that loomed in the shadows of the furthest corner of the largest suitcase.

Tim, however, had questioned the existence of the whatever-it-was .

It was small, furry, russet, and clawed. It appeared to be the paw of some kind of animal, although he wasn’t quite sure what. 

He would learn, years later — whilst watching a grainy video on a nature documentary channel— that it was, in fact, the pentadactyl limb of a Tasmanian Tiger.

He would learn, five days after the object’s discovery— whilst watching an episode of Scooby Doo, after his parents had up and left yet again— that it was, in fact, cursed.

Or haunted.

Or possessed.

Or all of the above.

It seemed the ghoul whose soul was trapped inside the paw loathed the programme and its ghoulish morals; it had a fit, an outburst of electrified energy emitting from its non-corporeal body, somehow fine-tuning it’s true nature, manipulating the twisted ghoul into its most powerful form—

A poltergeist.

Poltergeists were different from ghosts, ghouls, phantoms, lost souls and vengeful spirits. They didn’t exist for the sake of existing, nor did they have unfinished business— they had no undiscovered purpose, or family to watch over, nor did they have the ability to materialise in front of people, guiding them towards the light.

No, poltergeists were the embodiment of anger, of unwarranted fury, of a child’s fears and deep rooted sorrows, of a loved one’s cries, of despair for the sake of despairing— and, sometimes, they could possess people.

Ghosts and ghouls could become geists, too, if neglected— hence why Death implemented its ‘Crow Watcher’ system to monitor the wanders on a regular basis. If the crow reported back an at-risk being, Death would step in to allow a cross-over.

Poltergeists were often expired souls due for collection— souls who had accomplished life, and somehow slipped through the gaps, due to endure a tortuous existence without a guide. They were often trapped, too, tethered to an object meaningless to their lives, forced to be unseen by all, wandering without purpose or thought.

Perhaps that was what happened to the poltergeist within the Tasmanian Tiger Paw ; driven mad by boundaries, set free by rage.

Rage tragically directed at an innocent toddler fixated on a cartoon detective show.

Like an arrow, the geist’s tendrils of invisible lightning shrieked through the air, sailing towards the TV, piercing through Tim. He had shrieked, spasming, flailing, wailing, which only seemed to aggravate the ill-fated spirit more.

It was as if his body was on fire. Like he had been stung by a million wasps, paralysed by their venom. Like bullet ants had injected him with toxins. Like he had stuck his fingers inside the electrical sockets after washing his hands. He was two years old. A toddler.

His screaming attracted the attention of the teenage babysitter, who had frantically called the Drakes, claiming their son was having a seizure. Something inside of him had thrashed in protest, then— like an intuition, he knew that the word he barely understood was not correct.

On the way out the door, as he was carted away to hospital despite his parents' prior protests, a soothing chill brushed through his arms, like ice, alongside an unexplainable hapless-yet-peaceful feeling— one he would grow to know, and grow to dread.

That was the brush of Death, who later vacuumed the rouge ghost away, sending its corrupt soul elsewhere.

That was his first encounter with Death, and a poltergeist; it was far from his last.

Tim Drake had not always seen ghosts, but he had felt them.

They felt him, too.

It happened once every month after that, so it seemed.

Phantom hands choked him, tripped him, shoved him— every time he entered a new room, it was as if something had arrived to kill him. Paranoia gripped him. Everything was a threat.

Death caught him twice more in the hallways, and once on the stairs, chasing the beings who drove him insane. Before he grasped the implications of the unseen ice-creature, Tim had been calmed by its presence. Death took the evils away.

Housekeepers deemed him disturbed, and urged Tim’s parents to get their child assessed. They refused, of course. They were far too proud to have their reputation ruined by an anxiety ridden child. One housekeeper— one lonesome person— had sided with Tim. John Constantine had believed him.

Then again, John Constantine was also a drunken British man who read him bedtime stories about unsolved murder cases and unimaginable horrors that had a high probability of hiding under his bed… and proceeded to steal a diadem from the Drake’s private museum one week later, before vanishing without a trace.

Nearly.

All that remained of his existence was a single, salt-laced, necklace. Tim wasn’t quite sure what compelled him to put it on, but not a day went by where he regretted it. 

Ghoulish attempts on his life slowed after that, for a while. They slowed, until he turned seven.

On Tim’s seventh birthday, after receiving the family signet ring which was far too large for him, his Father had ‘accidentally’ broke the precious necklace, claiming it was ‘Too girly, anyway’, or how ‘The only jewellery men wore were rings.’

Hollow dread.

That was all Tim felt as the protective cord around his neck was snapped. His only tether severed. His safety net destroyed.

Hours dragged on; the remainder of his seventh birthday felt more like a pity-party, a celebration of his impending mortality.

Hollow dread.

Whilst he didn’t have the ability to see them, Tim was an intelligent child: if he could put two and two together to discover the identities of Batman and Robin, he could identify a ghoul in his sleep.

Dinner had rolled around; Tim’s neck itched. His mind was screaming at him to run, to get far, far away from there— to sprint out of the manor, else something dreadful would happen.

“Mother,” Tim shifted in his seat, knuckled white and trembling around a salt shaker, “Apologies for interrupting. May I be excused from the table?”

“No, Timothy. You had plenty of time before the food.” his Mother dismissed, turning back to one of the many potential business partners she invited around for his ‘ special day’, “Apologies, Shannon, the boy is severely undersocialized and out of practice with his manners. As I was saying, the stocks are positively—”

Hollow dread.

Tim had turned back to his plate, the sliced salmon seeming less and less appetising by the second. All his instincts told him not to eat it— not to so much as touch the fish— yet, his parents were present, Tim’s stomach growled, and hunger gripped his senses.

‘I’m sorry, future me.’ He had apologised internally, ‘If you get sick, it’s not my fault.’

Thanks to his parents’ negligence forgetfulness, Tim hadn’t eaten in a couple of days— he was undeniably starving.

And so, with a heavy heart hammering, he inhaled the food and swooshed it down with water.

Two minutes later, the young boy had dropped from his chair, unable to breath, choking on the ghost of a vengeful salmon, swimming down his throat, indistinguishable scales slicing from the inside out.

Metallic. Oozing. Suffocating. Can’t breathe.

Cutlery cluttered to the ground with a clang, as Janet turned to scold him, “Timothy, how many times have I—”

Only, for the first and final time, she broke off, words hanging in the air like an innocent from a tree, eyes wide in sudden fright.

“Oh, my.” Someone had gasped, but Tim couldn’t tell who over the sound of his own choking, the blood rushing to his head and from his mouth and—

“Call an ambulance—!”

“Avert your eyes—!”

Hazardous lights, whiter than snow, blared across in his vision.

“Is he alright—”

The world spun like a merrigoround, vertigo flooding his senses.

“Support his head!”

Control was but a privilege, and Tim had none.

“He’s seizing, he’s seizing—”

Everything and nothing all at once.

Silence.

Terror.

Gone.

.

White.

Something.

Distantly, he acknowledged something loomed over him.

Something loomed over him.

Something loomed over—

Like a startled stray cat, Tim scrambled back into an abandoned abyss of nothing— how did he get there— and gaped up at the strange something in morbid awe.

Taste of blood. His mouth had tasted like blood.

Oh. He had choked.

It had hurt.

‘Am I dead?’

“Timothy Jackson Drake.” The cryptid had rasped, its voice like a record scratching whilst someone scraped glass across a chalkboard, “You have evaded my scythe thrice plus twice. You have encountered my presence yet you still breathe. You have narrowly escaped the jaws of the void. You are somehow still alive.”

Starring was all he could do as the great shadowed figure loomed over him, some vessel of horror.

‘Is it here to reap my soul?’ Tim had wondered, fingers ice, tongue numb and heavy.

A breathy chuckle emitted from the creature’s throat, and the boy startled, “Perhaps today. Perhaps not today. That is for you to decide. According to this list, however,” Death withdrew an iridescent scroll from the black of its cape, “I should have done it five times over. T’is impressive that this went unnoticed for so long.”

Something inside him shrieked danger, and a Drake’s survival skills kickstarted, “I didn’t even die— how could I have narrowly escaped you even once?”

Cre-e-ea-ak, went the hooded head of the being, “Now that’s a rather curious hypothesis, isn’t it? Here, it clearly says you ‘brushed past me fivce.’”

Mind racing, eyes scanning the outstretched document, Tim had absentmindedly murmured, “Fivce isn’t a word…”

“It is according to the High Elders . As are the terms ‘scixe’ and ‘septice’ .” It waved a dismissive, skeletal hand, “Anyway— that is a minor detail in a much larger painting; I am not here to lecture you on language. Point being, according to the most ancient laws, by doing what you did, you have earned a place for the timeless compromise. You now have a choice.”

Death had paused for what Tim could only interpret as dramatic effect— heart jolting, jittering and hammering in his chest— then offered its right hand.

“You can take my hand and cross over now, or become a Death Seeker.”

He was almost too afraid to ask, but with his life quite literally in the hands of the being before him, Tim had blurted, “What’s that?”

“As Death Seeker, you will be able to see ghosts and ghouls as they linger in the shadows; you will see realms of ours and theirs and others ; you will dabble with most ancient magics and evolve as your powers grow; your luck will be irreversibly bad when it comes to deceiving me again. If you agree, we will meet five times over, before your loyalty shall be rewarded, and you will join my crows in patrolling the skies.”

Death brandished its left hand— with a flick of the wrist, a deck of cards materialised. The being unboxed them, discarded the packaging, fanned them out like a peacock’s tail, and presented them to Tim face down.

“So, what’s it going to be? Pick a card, any card, then pick four more— or instantaneously dying?”

Tim had stared, hesitated, held his breath, outstretched his hand and…

Withdrew the Ace of Spades.

Beneath the hood, the boy made out a toothy grin upon the grim reaper’s face. Implications settled in as he selected a second card, then a third, and a fourth and from a separate deck— with red backs rather than blue— the doomed fifth: he had made a Deal with Death.

(“Curious,” Death had whispered, upon reviewing Tim’s final card selection later that evening, “Very curious indeed.”)

When he awoke in hospital an hour later, the boy was greeted with the disappointed stares of his parents. Delicate, sharp, and precise.

—

Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, Queen of Diamonds, Jack of Hearts, the Joker. 

Five cards; five deaths that would follow in suit. 

Four of those five had already occured; Tim was down to his last life.

When Death had informed him that ‘irreversibly bad luck’ and ‘seeing it five times more’ that were a part of the deal, Tim had not thought for a moment that the agreement would involve him recklessly dying to trigger said five meetings.

Four of them had already happened; when he noticed the pattern after his third death, the familiar hollow dread seeped though his bones— the cards related to a method of his demise.

Mundane was the only word that could describe his first death; at eight, he had drowned in a pond after shovelling nearby with a spade . The intent had been to plant some lilies near the water's edge. In hindsight, perhaps it was a mistake on his behalf to use the flower that one often associated with death .

Later, he had perished after following Batman and the first Robin into a club — Tim snuck in through an open window on a higher floor. Unfortunately, the residents of the room he infiltrated consisted of Carmine Falcone and a handful of goons, who did not take kindly to trespassing nine-year-olds.

Tim could still feel the bullet pierce through his chest, the gritty texture of stiff, rolled up carpet he awoke in, and the stench of the waste from the steel garbage box that held him hostage until the garbage collector set him free.

Next, his death, age ten, partook not by sheer, dumb luck, but rather a fault of his own; he had tracked Catwoman across the rooftops. When Tim spotted the Queen of thieves stealing a diamond, he fumbled for his camera, slipped, plummeted 30 feet down, and smashed his head against the ground.

After Death tutted him and shoved his soul back to his body, Tim awoke with a splitting headache, vertigo, and a criminal-vigilante-catburglar crouching over him, her hands trembling for his pulse. At his whimper of protest, she had scooped him up like a kitten, and handed the boy over to Nurse Leslie, who seemed baffled by his swift recovery and released him an hour later.

After noticing the card associated pattern, Tim should have seen his fourth death coming; it was due to the unfortunate naming of his alias, after all. Jackson Maverick was doomed from the start. Eleven at the time, he was mistaken for another Jack , and subsequently tortured and stabbed through the heart by Scarecrow because of it.

Which was ironic on two levels, Tim supposed. Scarecrow. Scare-Crow. One more death, and he would become a crow.

Alvin Draper was born thereafter, and Jackson was buried in the dust.

At nine, he tracked down one of Constantine’s allies and learnt how to create protective wards. At ten, he advanced to spell casting. He was a necromancer by eleven. By the age of twelve, he accepted the Joker card’s implication. At thirteen, caution had overthrown any semblance of fun.

Yes, Tim was still bound by duty to help Gotham; the ghosts knew he could see them, after all, and the sooner he could resolve their unfinished businesses, the sooner they could move on, the sooner the crime rates would drop, and Tim’s survival rate would rise.

At least, that was the plan.

But then, Jason had died.

Batman had gone rouge.

Tim had called for Jason’s ghost.

Jason refused to help until vengeance had been served.

Jason refused to help until Joker died.

Until Joker died.

And clarity whacked him in the face.

Thus, fifteen minutes and twenty eight seconds after conversing with the sparky ghost of Robin, Tim found himself on the front doorsteps of his Manor, twiddling the rusted iron key on its chain. Mocking, a crow cawed from the shadows; with a flutter of feathers, it landed on the lone, lantern-lit fence post beside him.

Ever needy, the bird called out again, a blunt screech.

Refusing to face the creature— the crow did not deserve the satisfaction— the human Death Seeker intoned, “You know, Cordelia, if you actually wanted to help me, you would summon your master—”

CAW!

“—right, our master here, before I do something entirely idiotic that I know I will regret.” Tim muttered, whirling the keyring around once more before catching it. Beside the house key was a sigil; beside the sigil was a photo of Alvin Draper’s cat; beside that was the lock pick Tim used to open every other door in Drake manor.

CaH-CAW.

‘Oh.’ The boy paused, mentally retracing his time-taught crow dialect dictionary, ‘Two caws— no, a CaH-CAW. That’s different. That means—’

A gentle breeze flittered past, yet westward chills shivered down his spine. This time, Tim turned towards the distinct whistle in the wind, eyes sore from the onslaught of cold.

‘Death is close.’

[NOTE: Unlike a hypothesis generated by Texan Researchers in the late 1800s, Death Seekers cannot see the entity known as Death, unless they have a) just perished, or b) been transformed into a raptor, or c) sacrificed a damascus goat on the night of a blood moon. A Death Seeker may acknowledge the presence of Death due to the sudden chill and distinct absence of ghouls, a sacrifice of a damascus goat any day, or witnessing a spirit seemingly be vacuumed out of existence.]

From the perch, Cordelia dipped her head and ruffled her feathers, talons tapping in agitation.

Sparing a glance, Tim hesitated before hushing, “Is it here?”

Caw!

“And what of the poltergeist?”

A-Ark!

Tim inhaled once, sharp, ‘Great. We can get this over and done with sooner rather than later.’

Mouth dry, the boy dropped to one knee before his door, withdrew a pocketknife, unlaced his boots, and rolled down his left sock. There, silver and salt-laced and saddled with iron charms, sitting pride-of-place above Tim’s foot was the anklet. The anklet he crafted following the overtly complex tutorial from Constantine’s companions. The anklet that would be useless against restless spirits if broken.

Delicately, he flicked open the blade, eyes meeting the steel bridge welded around his skin, and inched his hand closer. There, he reminded himself as of why he was about to do it— if Batman was lost to darkness, Gotham City would be subjected to unimaginable horrors — and then, he did it.

SLIIIIICE! CHINK-INK-INK-ink-ink-ink!

Like a bullet shell from a gun, his anklet clattered to the ground. Numb, Tim could only stare at it. Goose pimples pricked from his skin, ankle odd without the weight, hairs raising, heart thummering, hollow dread intensifying.

‘Hello darkness my old friend.’ Tim brooded.

Grieving the loss of his final protector, he scooped up the hidden treasure, cradled it like a broken baby bird, and lowered it to rest in the crevice of his pocket.

Then, he rose. 

With precision, he guided his key to the manor’s lock— hollow dread— rotated it with a click, and pushed the blackened handle down.

Darkness snuck out from the ajar door, mingling with the dim glow of the lantern, an ominous creature of shadows looming, observing, obstructing.

Flitter flutter flap!

With a start, Tim jerked his head to the left— a weight on his shoulder jolted adrenaline into action, and fight or flight kicked in. 

He was going to die he had to live he-was-going-to-die-he-had-to-live -hewasgoingtodiehehadtolivetolivetoliveTOLIVE—

Any morals, any wits about his purpose of visiting were swiftly forgotten as the Death Seeker fought for his life, arms flailing for the unseeable something that had caught him off guard before even stepping foot in his home.

This wasn’t how he recalled poltergeists behaving! This wasn’t supposed to—

Amidst the chaos of his own introspection, Tim’s wrist connected to something solid and feathered and warm and— he froze, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand clenched over his heart.

“ Cryptids, Cordelia!” Tim cursed, “Don’t do that!”

From his shoulder, the small crow nibbled his earlobe. An apology. 

Prying her talons up to his hand and placing her back onto the shaky post, the boy reiterated, “You should go. I don’t want you here to witness— that.”

When she died three years ago, Cordelia had been five-years-old. Tim dreaded the implications of how such a young girl had become a Crow for Death, but one thing was for certain— she didn’t need any more trauma. None of them did.

‘But I don’t have a choice.’

Misery incarnate, the lone crow warbled. He offered a shaky smile, “Don’t fret, my friend; I shall join you soon.”

‘That’s what she’s worried about.’

With one last breath of the night’s pure air, Tim turned his back to the bird, pushed the creaking door wide open, and stepped into the abyss.

BANG!

Tim flinched; the door slammed shut.

Polar air sank at his feet, like satanists worshipping the devil. Through the flickering darkness of his adjusting eyes, paintings danced upon the wall, their crooked limbs and grins of anarchy taunting, teasing, testing him. Metres in front, silhouettes of stairs jittered into existence, like a photograph materialising into existence.

Hollow dread.

What was he expecting? He was leading himself in by a noose; he was willingly crossing paths with that poltergeist.

With every step forward, Timothy Drake’s feet trembled. He was but an innocent led to the gallows so a rebellion could rise in his name. A rebellion that would overthrow the villain, bringing years and years of tyranny and bloodshed and chaos to an end.

Hollow dread.

A lamb to the slaughter.

Hollow dread.

A wronged son doomed to fall.

Hollow dread.

It was too quiet.

Sometimes, people failed to acknowledge the presence of sounds until they vanished. In Tim’s case, the sounds were whispers of wind whistling in through the drawing room’s half-latched window; the rhythmic ticking of the ancient grandfather clock; the far-off white noise from Gotham City’s suffering heart.

But then, the breeze ceased, the clock’s hands stilled, the distant static dulled; Tim was met with void silence.

One foot planted, he pivoted. The shriek of his boot screeched against the mahogany floorboards— stark, shrill— an ear-splitting sound reverberated off the walls, soared up to the ceiling like a desperate bird broken free.

Near the stairs, a crystal chandelier swung like a thief hanged for its crimes. Silence reclaimed its victims. Tim’s ears strained for any sound— any at all— yet all that remained was the distant echo of his own breath.

“Alright,” he murmured, “This is fine.”

He took a step forward then, towards the split staircase. As if trapped inside an optical illusion, the steps seemed to inch further and further away— and so Tim picked up the pace.

Locked inside his blasé behaviour, the Death Seeker failed to acknowledge the frozen air rising up, up, up .

Another step ; one boot in front of the other; lean a little ; place another foot; walk .

Blood rushed to his ears, inhiliating the lack of noise.

Adrenaline poured into his veins, and then— Tim was running.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!

Worn boots pounding the floor, he attempted to bridge the gap between the front door and the staircase to little to no avail; it was as if he was running in place, a tiny dancer doomed to spin on his pedestal for the rest of time.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

If he squinted hard enough, Tim could pretend he was getting closer, pretend he wasn’t doing something entirely reckless, pretend he wasn’t about to—

BAM-BAM-BAMBAMBAM- SLAM!! 

Phantom hands— piercing, chilled, raw— shoved his back with the force of a truck; he slammed into the ground, chin whacking the floor with a BANG, agony shooting through his body.

“Eugh.” He groaned; his fingers dug into the floorboards, splintering beneath his nails in a futile attempt to hall himself up. 

Beside him, a shattered mirror told him what he had already known; what he had planned; what he had created . Cloaked in shadows, mimicking their convoluted leader, Tim’s poltergeist— his mirror twin, his antithesis, his death echo born from the first time his heart froze— harmed the boy for the first time in half a decade.

Metallic tangs oozed in his mouth; Tim spat red.

Pale hands laced around his throat, feathered with blue.

“Hello, Timmy.” Breathed the imposter, the Anti-Tim— Antim , its scar-burden face materialising beside his own, “Nice to see you again— although I’m not quite sure why you blocked me out.”

Undignified, a crushing weight from Antim’s abilities fell upon his back; air forced itself from his lungs, sweet oxygen escaping into the fleeting night. Writhing, he wheezed; hacking, he breathed; spasming, he collapsed— weakened, his head hit the ground.

“You tried to murder me—” The Death Seeker choked a response, “ Twice.”

Bloodied converse waltzed beside Tim. He braced for the inevitable kick; when it arrived, a gift from the blazing underworld— it was thrice as brutal as the last time.

‘I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe—’

The Geist snarled, “That gave you no right to imprison me in that damned mirror!”

Antim’s penumbra fell upon him; tendrils of frost invaded his body, eyes glass, skin numb, heart slowing.

Invasion .

Corrupt whispers circled his mind like vultures, his thoughts intertwining with his villainous self’s, willing him to stop breathing, to just give up, to succumb to the eternal sleep and shroud himself in darkness until Time and Space arrived to harvest his fractured soul.

It was useless. It was foolish. He was numb.

Like clockwork, his hands began to twitch, to stutter and turn— his legs followed, then his head and his feet and arms and— Tim sat in the backseat as the poltergeist overpowered his body.

Possession.

Deep within the confoundment of his own mind, a three minute timer ticked 

down… 

[Two minutes remain.]

Antim staggered to their feet, knees scraping the ground with every stammering fall. Tim took the pain, throat closing up as if a bubble remained there, imprisoned.

down… 

[One minute remains.]

Hollow dread.

“I was born from your mistakes!” Antim’s raspy tone commingled with the ghoulish blood that drip-drip-dripped from his mouth, echo thrown around, “You shall pay for mine!”

down…….

[Thirty seconds remain.]

Hollow dread hollow dread hollow dread hollow dread suffocating-can’t-breath- hollow dread—

down……………

[Ten seconds remain.]

Hollow dread hollow dread hollow dread-can’t hollow-help hollow dread hollow-help-me-please hollow-dread-hollow-dread-hollow-dread-hollow HELP ME—!

He couldn’t fight back, even if he tried. And he tried. His body betrayed him, Tim tried, he promised, he tried!

Hollow dread, numb pain, hollow dread, numb pain, hollow numb hollow numb hollow numb hollow—

[Five seconds remain.]

Hollow numb hollow hollow numb numb hollow numb Antim’s walking towards a statue why—?

[Four seconds remain.]

Hollow—statues got a sword— numb hollow—what’s he— hollow numb hollow numb— why is he—?

[Three seconds.]

Hollow dread hollow dread hollow numb dread. 

Ouch. 

Oh.

[Two seconds.]

Soon, he would be Hollow dead.

He had seen his final death a thousand times.

A marionette with its string cuts, he would collapse to the ground.

A broken bird, he would crash through a window.

A fool, he would suffocate and suffer somewhere, lost.

Alone, he would reap his own soul.

A thousand times over, with ghosts and ghouls and villains and misadventures and nightmares and doom and implements and—

[One second remained.]

SNAP!

A scream. An immortalised, penetrating scream.

A whoosh of air.

Air.

Air came rushing back in; floodgates had been lifted; warm conquered cold; he could feel his fingertips as they fizzled back to life.

No— no, that was not life he was experiencing— no, life was different; life involved pain, and suffering, and mishaps. No; this was different.

Everything was quiet. Everything was still. Everything was calm.

Wavering, Tim raised a hand before his face— the Death Seeker expected to see the transparent glow of a new ghoul’s outline, a whimsical thing, a haunting, dreadful thing— yet… yet, that was not what he witnessed.

Bloodied, tingling, opaque. Not a crow’s wing, either…

“I’m still alive.” He slurred aloud, drowsy from lack of breath and— something else , vision dancing, “How am I— how’m I still ali—?”

Death.

Complexities of life were all but forgotten as the veiled shadow slipped into his vision. Chances of his impending mortality were discarded like ‘the joker’ should have been from that cursed deck—

Death.

Why weren’t his hands— ghostly? Was seeing ghouls in a ghoulish manner exclusively a living Death Seeker privilege? He had to be a ghost, after all, for his hands most certainly were not—

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” Death began— why did it always say his full name?— “We meet again.”

“Oh.” Tim realised, running a finger through the blood pooling-pooling- pooling from the Drake’s Knight’s sword, which skewered him like those delicious kebabs at a Wayne gala— those were nice…— but what wasn’t nice was the fact that Death had stopped time in the middle of his dying— again. 

Hence the lack of pain. Hence the drowsiness. Death caught him mid-demise adrenaline rush. Again.

“You— are not — v’ry niiice.” Moving his tongue was a chore; it was all swollen and heavy. And metallicy. Bloody. Ouch.

A breathy chuckle.   Death chuckled a lot.   It was mocking, but it wasn’t mocking.   Death’s chuckle was the kind of chuckle that— that—

‘What am I doing again?’ Tim furrowed his brow, head swimming, ‘Why’d I look like a kebab? Oh well. Kebabs are nice, I like kebabs, especially Wayne Gala kebabs—’

“So you have said.” The immortal being intoned, and Tim lulled his head to glare at it, “It appears you and I are required to talk.”

SNAP!

It clicked its fingers, and like a steampunk machine jittering to life, the Armoured Knight that held him up retracted its sword, adrenaline seeped from his bloodstream, his wound wound itself shut, and normality sung with clarity in his mind.

With a thud, and a pain only to his dignity, Tim dropped to the ground before scrambling to his feet, straightening, and clearing his throat.

Mortified by his actions towards the cryptid that quite literally had his life in its hands, Tim rushed, “I am so, so sorry.”

Death stared. 

Tim furrowed his brows, ‘Did I say something wrong?’

The immortal feathered its hand with a flourish, summoning Tim’s severed anklet. Rusted, the iron charms had already dulled in the crooked fingers of Death.

Vacant eyes steady, it replied, “You have said nothing, yet have thought about everything. You have arrived here to bargain, sacrificing your mortality as a price— a price for a deal I may not even consider.”

Tim flinched, having forgotten Death’s invasive ability to read minds.

SNAP!

With a start, the atmosphere melted, jerked, altered and changed; there went the bronze statues and the royal paintings, the crystalline chandelier and the victorian rug, the Aztec pottery and the tudor furniture— all of it transformed into nothing, nothing but thin water and grey skies.

All that remained was a pair of cushioned chairs and an oak table, a series of five playing cards face down in the middle of it. A hapless sense of deja but swept over him like an unstoppable asteroid heading for Gotham whilst Superman and the Lanterns were off planet.

Death claimed one seat. 

Tim took the other.

Limbo.

Uncertain as to what to do, Tim placed his hands on the table, the wood neither warm nor cold beneath his touch. Death stared. He removed his hands from the table, muttering a swift apology.

“A Drake is not meek.” His Father’s voice rang in his head; the boy jerked his posture upright.

“A Drake always makes the best business decisions.” That was all the deal was, Tim realised— the whole time, all he had been dreading: it was all a build up to a business deal.

Raising his head, Tim looked Death in the eye.

Silence seemed to stretch between them forever, until the immortal spoke, “There are other ways to converse with me. You did not have to die.”

Curt, Tim responded, “The next blood moon is in over seven months, and you know how I feel about animal sacrifices. Besides, time could not be wasted.”

A pause. “Cordelia could have translated.”

“No,” Tim shut it down with a shake of his head, once, sharp, and for a moment, he was not speaking to Death— he was speaking to a foolish person who had just threatened his family, “She couldn’t have. She wouldn't understand. She shouldn’t have to. She’s a child .”

“She was never a child, neither were you.” At those words, Tim flinched. He moved to say something else— something he would inevitably regret— yet Death raised a dismissive hand, “That is besides the point. We are not here to discuss Cordelia, nor your questionable judgement in regards to your family—”

“ Questionable judgement —?”

“ Stop.” Death commanded. Tim’s jaw locked shut, “Do not interrupt me again.”

Knuckles white, he grit out, “I apologise.”

“Accepted. As I was saying, we are not here for trivial matters— one does not give their life for a trivial matter— you wanted to bargain, and so bargain we shall.” Death waved a hand over the five cards sprawled out on the table, “First, let’s play a game. I will turn a card over,” it proceeded to do so, for the furthest blue-backed card on Tim’s left, “And you shall tell me what it is.”

‘Easy enough,’ Tim thought, relaying aloud, shovel-pool-splash-doom, “Ace of Spades.”

As Death flipped the second card, gunshot-loud-pain-fall, “Ace of Clubs.”

And the third, heist-cat-slip-crack, “Queen of Diamonds.”

Forth, torture-pain-not-me-HELP, “Jack of Hearts.”

Fifth— red backed, deadly— Tim forced, “The Joker.”

Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, Queen of Diamonds, Jack of Hearts, the Joker. Those were his cards, after all.

“Is it The Joker,” Death gestured to the lone card, distanced from the others at the end of the row, the clown’s face grinning against an off-white background. “Or is it The Fool?”

Silence. Numbness.

“Pardon?” Tim blinked; he had to have— he must have misheard the being, as it sounded rather like the implied was—

SNAP!

A dog-eared deck of cards, each with red-marked backs, materialised on the table with a click of those awful skeletal fingers. Death fanned them— all twenty-one of them, for twenty-two was on the table— and offered Tim a choice.

Tongue trapped between his teeth, the boy shook his head. If he refused, it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

“Go ahead and choose.” Death’s stoic voice commanded, shuffling The Fool back into the deck, “It is not often I provide third chances.”

But Tim was frozen, a baby deer entranced by the headlights of a train, a train which had just derailed and wrecked any reason for his actions.

The Fool.

Was that all he was, in the grad scheme of things? An imbecile forced to believe his own foolish wit? A relayer for the undead, placed among the living? A boy who thought he had purpose when all he ever really had was idiocy—?

“If you cease to pick, I shall choose for you— and we both know which card I would withdraw.”

A mad laugh broke free, life shattering before his very eyes, “ Death ; you would obviously draw Death— not like you could pick anything else, after all— you are the actual embodiment of that card, so—” 

“Do you know why you drew ‘The Fool’ the first time, Timothy?”

“Because I’m an idiot !” And he was. He was a fool for believing he ever stood a chance. For believing that he could make a difference. For believing that he held any sort of power to help people—

Death’s airy laugh cut him off, “Someone clearly doesn’t know their tarots.”

Tim blinked his vision clear, looking between Death’s eyes searchingly.

‘What else could that card possibly mean—’

“The Fool represents new beginnings. Good luck. The willingness to take risks, following intuitions. Hence, it was rather curious for you— a Death Seeker— to withdraw such a card to represent your final demise.”

“Oh…” Tim’s heart hammered— for some reason, that still prevailed in purgatory— “Is that the— forgive me, but surely that would relay, in that context, to me becoming a— becoming a crow.”

“No; crow creation follows your death.” Death replied, “Cards prophecies your demise.”

“Oh.” He blinked rapidly, thoughts flying through his brain in an attempt to make sense of the words.

Death continued, “So tell me; how can one die via rebirth? Via good luck? Simply; you cannot. So, you favoured the card’s other meaning— risk taking and following intuitions. At first, I was sure The Hanged Man would have made more sense for your situation; the ultimate sacrifice, and all that— however… Your intuition told you to die in order to talk to me; in order for a deal; in order for the greater good. And so far, that has played in your favour, hasn't it?”

“ Oh .” He repeated, a broken parrot.

“Yes, ‘oh.’” Death chuckled, inching the fanned deck closer to the boy, “So tell me now— pick another card— where do following instincts lead you this time?”

For once, Tim’s fate was in his own hands. Whatever he chose— whichever card he drew— would write the futures of thousands of innocent lives. Fates of Batman, of Robin, of Gotham; they all relied on him.

He was the boy that would draw the card. He was the one who could save them all. He was The Fool , The Mistaken Jack, The Death Seeker.

As his hands tremoured towards the deck, Tim’s mind pulsed with determination, anticipation, hope.

For a moment, he hovered over the card three away from the end, and very nearly picked it up— but then, at the last second, he swayed towards the first, tucked right beneath Death’s thumb. Heart in his throat, Tim flipped it, read it and—

“ Justice .”

“Alright.” Death grinned, “You win.”

As relief coursed through his veins, and a smile graced Tim’s lips, Death vanished the new deck from view— the boy had nearly chosen The Hanged Man. 

(Privately, Death was glad he did not draw that card. Timothy needn’t stay in Purgatory alone for all eternity in order for retribution to be served.)

“I believe it is time for a negotiation.”

And negotiate, they did…

—*—

SNAP!

White light burst from all around— colourless, blinding — like a flash bomb thrown down for a great escape. A great escape ; Tim was certain that phrase summed up his interaction with Death— the negotiation with Death. How Justice would be served for a small price to pay.

How The Fool card saved his life, by coming into play.

The Fool.

Tim’s prophesied ‘Final Death’ ended with a potential rebirth; it appeared Death had gained some sympathy over the years, perhaps regretting its actions for carelessly brushing past him, and in turn allowed him another shot at life.

Kind of.

Staring out at Gotham, which was illuminated by the darling rays of sunrise, Tim took in his city’s beauty. People rarely acknowledged the shining in the shadows, moments of purity within the darkness. Even on the dullest of days, when happiness seemed lost to a void of shadows, when smog danced upon the streets, Tim knew there would be hope.

He knew .

Feet dangling over the ledge, he awaited the tell tale signs of Justice to sing across the skyline. He awaited Death to uphold its side of the deal.

Patience was a virtue.

Birds migrated eastward across the skies, sailing the silver breeze with wind spirits Zephyr and Eurus. Cloud collected hues from their warm painted surroundings, adding oranges and peaches and yellows to cotton pallets.

Looking out upon his city, Tim smiled. 

Peace at last. Why would anyone want to leave that behind?

WOO-ooo-WOO-ooo! WOO-ooo-WOO-ooo! WOO-ooo-WOO-ooo!

The Death Seeker perked up at the distant sound of an alarm; an alarm that was only played in test moments prior; only played for faux announcements or news channels.

But then— in that very moment— it was finally real.

And for some reason, through blinding relief and disbelief and the irreplaceable feeling of the beginning, one thought played through Tim’s mind: ‘Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead!’

Sirens wailed, a chorus of joy— disco lights blared and flashed red in the distance, like monochrome disco balls of victory. Of retribution. Of justice.

From their peep-holes, people poked their faces into the open, foggy air, their melodic shouts of glee like echoes of unrivalled, happy memories were bursting through their minds. The newest happiest born from a sound, a memory to conquer all others; no more fear, no more pain . 

“The Joker’s dead!” They cried, “He’s gone!”

“He’s dead !”

“They’ve killed him!”

“Joker’s finished!”

“We’re safe!”

“We’re free!”

‘Everything will be alright.’

Smiling, the sun shone a little brighter, painting grays with gold. Sunrises golden haze welcomed its people home.

A curse had been lifted, just like the city’s spirits.

‘Everything will be alright.’

“THANK YOUUUU!” Tim hollered from the rooftops, leaping to his feet and beaming brighter than the star, warm at last, “THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!”

He could barely see from how much he beamed. 

And then, as shouts of laughter and relief and pure undiluted joy echoed his own grateful words, Timothy Jackson Drake pushed down a resin mask, turned his back to the crowds, to the city, and… 

Stepped backwards off the rooftop.

Wind whipping his hair, black cape sprawled below, the sky embracing him, the boy dropped down, grinning all the way.

Down, down, down.

Never in his life had he ever enjoyed falling.

Down, down, down.

Never before had he appreciated the drop.

He was free. 

He was free . 

He was free!

He was finally free!

Midair, he twisted, outstretched his arms, and returned the air’s perfect hug.

With a single move, Tim had diffused the entire bomb; The Joker was dead, Jason got Vengeance, and Batman wouldn’t take a life.

All it cost was Tim’s humanity.

But at the end of the day, he was but a Fool, and the sacrifice was worth it for Justice.

Like clay, his body contorted, shrunk and remoulded, twisting into another form.

The Crow spread his wings, eyes alight with liberty, and took off into the dawn.

Determined, he soared eastward with one thing on his mind: 

He had a ghost to find.

.

.

.

Fin.