8263/The Secret Life of Jack Drake: Old Bones

The Secret Life of Jack Drake: Old Bones
Date of Scene:	16 October 2021
Location:	Drake Estate, Gotham City
Synopsis:	Buried secrets don't stay buried forever...
Cast of Characters:	Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

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Lonnie Machin has posed:
    It's about 1:30 in the afternoon when Tim's cell phone goes off. The head of the demolition crew clearing away the remains of the old Drake House have his number in the event that there's a problem or they have any questions. The phone rings, pretty persistently, and then it goes to voicemail.
    "Ey yo, Mistah Drake," The foreman says, in his thick Gotham accent, "You might wantah get down here and have a look. Some of the boys was clearing away some crap an' we found something *funny* in the foundation of the house. We figure you might wantah see it before we's fill in the basement wit' dirt. Call me back, or just come by, it's your land, an' we'll be here all day."
    The demolition crew is present, but work seems to have been stopped. A couple of crewmen are using shovels to clear dirt and rubble away from the foundation.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim isn't answering his phone because he's asleep, and the demolition project isn't set high enough priority within the algorithm that handles personal communications (of course Tim wrote a program to deal with this stuff) for him to be woken out of REM sleep for the call. But once the system has transcribed and processed the voicemail, the smart watch on his phone starts to vibrate. Then, a few moments later, his alarm sounds.

    His car (not the ridiculously expensive one) is pulling up to the gates of the Drake Estate about 30 minutes later, and Tim is showered and dressed and awake. That last part is thanks mostly to the travel mug of coffee he clutches in one hand as he closes the car door behind him and starts making his way up to the construction site.

    There's a moment where seeing the remains of his family home mostly cleared makes him stop, a pang of... something hitting him sharp in his chest. Grief. Regret. Longing. Guilt. It's all a mess, tangled up into a ball of emotions that he can't even begin to process, but Tim only blinks once and starts walking again. None of it shows on his face.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The foreman is nearby, and he's actually unrolled the floorplan of the house and is looking at it. And then at the actual foundation - and when Tim gets close enough, the reason is obvious.
    There's a section of basement - concrete walls, reinforced ceiling - visible where there was no room. It was under the conservatory. They've dug the dirt and rubble out of that section of the basement to look at the wall - smooth, seamless concrete masonry.
    "Looks like another room, but it ain't on the floorplan. If you didn't rip down th' greenhouse above it, you'd never know it was heah. Somebody sealed it off wit' concrete."

Tim Drake has posed:
    It might have been better if Tim had showed up in a suit like he usually wears on any kind of official business. But he just... no. Not today. Not dealing with this, which is a thing Tim understands on an intellectual level that he does not want to face. So he's in his usual jeans and hoodie, looking much more like college student Tim than Wayne heir Tim.

    Besides, it's a construction site. Why bother?

    He glances at the floorplan that the foreman has rolled out, but only for a second. The beartrap of Tim's mind already has it memorized, from his childhood memories. So he's already spotted the thing that doesn't fit. It makes his eyebrows draw together as he steps closer. "There was nothing underneath it," he says, though of course he's staring down at the physical evidence disproving that. He crouches down to inspect it closer. "Can you tell how long ago it was sealed off?"

    He has his own estimation, but no point in not taking advantage of having someone with more experience on the matter.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Ain't no recent thing." The foreman says. "Concrete's in pretty good shape tho. Was good work. 20 years maybe? Thirty? I dunno. Shame your ol' man ain't aroun' no more to shed any light on this, kid."
    He runs a hand through his hair. "But you're the boss now. Wha'chu want us to do with it? Could be the whole thing got filled in, but we ain't gonna try to bust into it wit' out your say-so."

Tim Drake has posed:
    That tracks with Tim's general estimate, which was 'poured before he was born'. He frowns to himself as he sweeps a hand through his hair, tucking what little of it is long enough back behind his ear. "Okay," he says, and then he stands up, before saying "Okay," again. He turns around.

    It is a shame that Jack Drake isn't here to explain. The home has been in the Drake family for generations, so he'd be the one to know.

    Tim takes in a deep breath as he looks around, eyeing the crew on-site and the work being done. All of the air empties from his lungs, and then he decides, "Open it up.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Right." The Foreman turns, and whistles up his crew. "Get picks and a jackhamma'! We're gonna open it up." He looks over at Tim, and says, "Maybe it's jus' being from Gotham, but I love a mystery, you know? I used to read Miss Marple mysteries to my bubbeh." He shrugs, and then they get to work.
    The concrete is thick and well-poured, it takes some doing. One of the men knocks on the wall with a hammer, and with practice of experience he says, "I think dis is the doorway."
    Then they get to work. Eventually, the doorway is open, revealing a dark room beyond. The foreman shines a flashlight inside, revealing - "Dis some kind of trophy room?" He says, as his flashlight comes face to face with a leering mask mounted on a wall.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim backs up, so that he's out of the way. And then backs up some more for good measure, out of an abundance of caution. "I was more into Sherlock Holmes as a kid," he admits as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "But I always liked the Miss Marple stories more than the Poirot."

    Staying out of the way is what he continues to do while the construction crew get to work. He busies himself on his phone, digging through the family files he has on the Roost mainframe, looking for some hint of what this room could be. That, and his memories. He was adventurous enough as a kid to spend time in the basement, but all of his childhood exploration matches up to the official blueprints. It doesn't make any sense.

    When the call goes out that they're through, Tim is on his feet and moving, standing behind the foreman as they both peer into the room revealed beyond. "I'm not sure," he begins, and then he glances down at the foreman's flashlight. "Could I borrow that, please?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It's your house." The foreman gives Tim the flashlight.
    Inside, it's a gallery of artifacts from cultures across the entire world. As Tim shines the flashlight around, he sees more items mounted on the walls - a Zulu iklwa, a Japanese tanto blade. Shelves full of books in locked glass cases. Fossils. Cuneiform tablets.
    It always was kind of conspicuous, after a career as an archaeologist, that there just wasn't a lot of that stuff around for most of Tim's life. This was apparently where it went.
    "What IS all dis stuff?" The foreman asks.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The phrase "It belongs in a museum!" echoes in Tim's head as he moves the beam of the flashlight from one artifact to the next, slowly. He touches his brow, nearly giving in to the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, but that's a Red Robin gesture, not a Tim Drake gesture. That sort of thing, he tries to keep separate.

    "Souvenirs," is the only answer Tim gives. He bites the inside of his cheek. It takes him a few seconds before he's certain he'll be able to affect a vaguely uninterested tone. "I'll need to borrow some of the construction lights while I go through all of this. Do you think we could get some sort of door or gate set up at the entrance for the time being?"

    Internally, though, Tim is struggling to get his thoughts in order. Why? Why hide all of this?

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I'll uh. See what we can do. Ey!" The Foreman whistles, "Get a light set up in here!" He looks around, and then back at Tim. "I figure you're gonna wanna be left alone wit' dis stuff. So we'll-- call it a day and come back tomorrow. We get paid either way."
    He walks out, and leaves Tim alone. Eventually they set up a light, which illuminates the entire room. They manage to put up some temporary safety partitions with a door, as well.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Yes, that is pretty much exactly what Tim wants right now. "Thanks," he calls out, and Tim doesn't do much exploring while he waits for the crew to set things up before clearing out. And then, once they're gone, he doesn't do much exploring either. Instead he presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and groans.

    "What were you hiding, dad?" he asks into the empty air.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The room is silent. The mask on the wall leers, but it doesn't speak. At the far corner of the room, there's a locked steel safe, as tall as Tim is. Warm afternoon sunlight shines in through the opening in the wall.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It takes... probably longer than Tim would admit to anyone, before he's ready to take a few deep breaths and push all his emotions down. Not just a few moments, several long minutes of him standing there in this uncovered treasure trove with who knows how many thousands or millions of dollars of valuable historic artifacts on display. On display for no one, because it was buried.

    "Okay." He's starting to sound like a broken record. His hands drop, and Tim looks around. There's so much in here that he's not even sure where to start. At least until he sees the safe.

    As he approaches it, Tim pulls his phone out of his pocket. He looks at it, hesitating on his speed-dial list, before he puts it back into his pocket.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    The safe is one of those reinforced affairs - it's cold steel, gunmetal gray, surprisingly pristine - there wasn't a lot of air in this room and it was sealed against moisture, so there isn't even much dust. The lock on it is a keypad - what was the combination? What combination of numbers might've been significant to Jack Drake? Unless it's completely random...
    Couldn't hurt to guess.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a whole calendar of important dates and numbers in Tim's head that he can tie to his father. Birthdays, old phone numbers, accounts....

    There are probably too many for Tim to try on his own, especially if there's some sort of security measure in place. It's not something Tim would expect of his father, but he also never expected a buried treasure room, either, so what does he know? Might as well be nothing. But his hand hovers over the keypad, and he frowns thoughtfully down at it, before he punches in a sequence of eight numbers.

    The day of his parents' wedding.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    That one doesn't work. Try again, Tim. The safe keeps its secrets.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim frowns again and glances over his shoulder, back towards the door. As he considers what equipment he has in the hidden compartment between his trunk and back seat, he types in another set of numbers.

    Janet Drake's birthday.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Nothing. You know the answer, Tim. It's just that it hurts. Third time's the charm...

Tim Drake has posed:
    After that set of numbers doesn't work, Tim turns fully away from the safe. He paces towards the doorway, scrubs his hands over his face, and holds his breath for a count of ten. Then his head tips back and he exhales.

    "I don't know what you're hiding, dad," he says as he walks back and crouches down next to the safe. He stares at it for a long moment, arms folded over his knees. And then as he swallows, heavily, he reaches up to tap in another set of numbers.

    07192001

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    There is a click, as the lock releases. Inside, the safe is empty, except for a book - it's a huge tome, three feet by three feet. It's covered in black leather with a distressingly familiar texture, and bound in blue-black iron.
    It's wrapped in a web of wrought iron chains, held together at the front with a lock bound into the shape of a leering human skull - with no keyhole.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim stares at the book inside the safe for a very, very long moment.

    And then he closes the safe.

    He walks away, back towards the door again, as he pulls out his phone and starts to send several texts.