8799/A Strange Case of Mistaken Identity: Symptomatic Treatment

A Strange Case of Mistaken Identity: Symptomatic Treatment
Date of Scene:	23 November 2021
Location:	The Roost
Synopsis:	Post-rescue, Tim and Jon have the Talk. You know, the one about how Tim's a secret vigilante that got Jon kidnapped and used as bait in Arkham Asylum. Whoops.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Jonathan Sims

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Tim Drake has posed:
    It's so late that it's early, when they return from Arkham. Dawn has officially broken over Gotham, another bleak day in a bleak city, everything doused in shades of grey. A warning had sounded in the Outsiders HQ when they arrived, alerting all team members present of an external presence in what is aptly named: the Roost.

    Jon is only privy to the secret hideout portion of the building, which is at least half a dozen storeys tall (or levels deep?), various labs and recreational areas arranged around an open-air central core that allows a glimpse all the way down to where the vehicles used by the team are parked, on the bottom level. Which Jon can sneak a peek at, should he peer over the railings at any point. Yep, there's the jet. And several motorcycles, one of which is commonly used by Red Robin when navigating the city streets.

    But their destination is the medbay, off of the labs, halfway up. So that Jon can be checked over thoroughly for injuries, and provided some quick hydration. The entire laboratory space is visible at the moment through the glass walls that enclose the different zones, separated by purpose, including at least one clean room off to the side and a darkened room lit only by the glow of computer monitors. Each is equipped with the kind of bleeding edge, state of the art technology that would be the envy of any academic or researcher. Literally millions upon millions of dollars of metal and machinery.

    Once Jon gets the all clear, he's free to not really do much. Certainly not wander around unsupervised, though Red Robin...

    ...no, Tim. Tim makes a reappearance, hair still damp from a shower, in a pair of jeans and a hoodie. He looks... normal. Like himself. But Red Robin is just as much him, when you get right down to it. Sometimes even moreso, the costume a second skin while the identity of Timothy Jackson Drake Wayne is the disguise.

    "How are you feeling?" he asks, leaning casually against the handrail that protects him from at least a thirty foot drop to the garage floor below.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    On finally reaching the Roost, the Archivist reaches his left wrist over to his right hand and twists the bracer there. His eyes stop glowing yellow-orange (didn't they used to glow green?) and the scale armor fades off his body, leaving Jon in the clothing he'd been wearing on the Hyperloop, suit and button-down shirt, no tie. He lets himself be prodded in the medbay and re-hydrated--they didn't do much besides wrench at his broken arm a bit and leave him sitting in one position for hours. Stiff, hungry, dehydrated, tired. Most of the damage is mental, really, and Medbays won't fix that.

    Then he waits. He peers down over the rail. He eyes the clean rooms and the labs. He takes things in without paying overly much attention; he can sort through it all later when he's not bone-tired and trying to tell himself he's not terrified of getting on the Hyperloop and heading home alone.

    When Tim comes in he looks up from where he's been sitting and smiles wanly. "Tired," he says. "Regretting ever setting foot in Arkham again. But... thank you, for coming for me." He shakes his head. "I should've known better than to ever... well. What's done is done, right?"

    He does /sound/ tired, but bearing up under the strain. And he doesn't address the obvious elephant in the room. Not yet, anyway.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I made up one of the rooms for you," Tim explains, rather than acknowledging Jon's regrets--or his thanks. He tips his head, and they're headed back to the elevator again, and Tim is silent on his bare feet as he walks at Jon's side.

    The silence continues on elevator ride (up?), and the doors open into a hallway, facing the opposite way they entered. There are rooms to the left and right, some decorated with pictures and other things, like this is a college dorm and not the secret hideout of what is apparently a clandestine team of vigilantes operating out of Gotham.

    Tim leads Jon into one of them.

    Inside is fairly bare bones, in the sense that there's no personality. There are linens on the bed, a fresh pair of clothes folded on top of the chest of drawers, and then, on the desk, a tray.

    On it, a cup of tea still steaming, and a glass of water. A bowl of forbidden purple rice topped with an array of fresh vegetables, simple but cut and arranged in a way that's aesthetlically pleasing. A small plate with a brownie. "It's not much," he says. "I can't cook anything except overnight oats," which doesn't actually involve cooking, "And rice," which probably involves the use of a rice cooker, which handles most of the work.

    But it's food, and there's also a stash of sports drinks and protein bars if Jon is still hungry afterward.

    Tim points towards one of the doors. "There are towels and bath products. You should eat and try to get some sleep. We'll get you back home to Martin soon."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Tim..." Jon hesitates, then turns to face the younger man. "What I need right now is... answers. Or maybe clarity. You're Red Robin. And this," he sweeps his good hand, "is some... hideout for a clandestine group of costumed vigilantes operating out of Gotham. The group Phoebe was with before she met... well. The fake Constantine."

    He fixes the man with a level gaze. "You cannot possibly expect me to be used as /bait/ for a trap for you and then go home as if nothing happened. If nothing else, the damn Archivist will force me to try to figure out who took me and we don't need /more/ of that business." He sounds irritated at... himself? Or does he mean 'the Archivist' is separate somehow?

Tim Drake has posed:
    Well, there it is. Tim's hands end up shoved into the pocket of his hoodie as he stands there, hovering halfway into the room and halfway back out into the hall. "Yeah," is all he says, to Jon's first declaration. And then to his next, after that gesture, another "Yeah."

    He leans against the doorway. "Your tea is going to get cold." And it's good tea. The kind Alfred imports from jolly old England.

    His gaze cuts away, staring at a non-existent speck of dirt on the floor. "Unfortunately making friends with Gothamites is dangerous. You never know which one of us will turn out to be a costumed vigilante," he says, with a slow shrug of one shoulder.

    Then, he sighs.

    "I'm sorry. That you were taken because of me. I'm arranging to have a car take you back home, once you've slept. Or I can charter a jet, if you'd prefer."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Tim, would you..." Jon's tone is irritated for a moment, then he blinks and his tone softens. "Oh. You feel guilty. Oh, Tim..."

    He reaches out to put his good hand on Tim's shoulder. "This wasn't your fault. It was whoever grabbed me to try to get to you." A pause. "And before you pull some kind of 'yeah but still on me' crap... you know who I work for. My /first/ thought, honestly, was HYDRA. My second was some enemy of my family. Even when I figured out I was in Arkham... I mean, I used to work there, for all I knew some patient hyperfixated on me."

    He sighs. "I'm not a civilian in need of defending... any more than you're a child in need of protection." By his tone, maybe he's been thinking that way. "We're in the same boat. Maybe we can help each other."

    He quirks a brow. "I teach you how to cook, you teach me how to kick thugs through doors? That was seriously impressive."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's eyes narrow, but the focus of them flicks up briefly to Jon's face before away, just as quick. "You're not a civilian, no," he agrees. That much, it seems, is not up for debate.

    But then he lets a heavy breath drain from my lungs. "You are my friend, though. And because of that, someone took you. It's not even the worst thing that has been done in an attempt to figure out who we are."

    He stares a little longer at the floor, and then shakes his head.

    "Lonnie says I'm already too hyper-competent at too many things," he says as the corner of his mouth twitches. "I think him being able to cook for me when he knows I can't do it is soothing, for him." A pause. "Don't tell him I said that."

    His hand withdraws from his pocket to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, though it's still damp enough that it curls and falls back against his forehead within a few seconds. "I could teach you how to kick someone through a door. It's not all that hard, really--you just have to take advantage of momentum. Make physics work for you."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon squeezes Tim's shoulder and then goes into the room to pick up the cup of tea, finally. Takes a sip and smiles. "Same type Martin imports," he murmurs fondly. Tea is comfort, more than almost anything else in his life.

    He looks over the rim of the cup at Tim. "I can imagine. I used to work at Arkham. I've heard some of the patients rant about your... compatriots." He quirks a brow. "But you're not the first costumed vigilante I've become friends with. You /have/ met Moon Knight." A pause. "I... know more about him than anyone living. It was another thought that crossed my mind, actually. It's not a new concept, that someone might kidnap and torture me for the information I have on him."

    He sighs. "Tim... I /am/ your friend. I'm not going to run away just because things got dangerous. Gods know they /started/ dangerous. And I... will admit I'm /terrified/ of the thought of going back on the Hyperloop alone. I'd appreciate a car."

    A pause, then, "Honestly, though, now that I know? I want to /help/ if I can. Because you're my friend, and because..." He sighs. "I left Arkham because I couldn't help. Couldn't fix anything. But life keeps drawing me back here. My first SHIELD op was here." He can't imagine the Bats don't have /any/ clue about that. "Gotham deserves better. If I can help you help this place..." He shrugs a shoulder. "That's worth some danger. /You/ are worth the danger."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I steal it from the Manor." Which isn't true, of course, but it is where the tea comes from. And Tim lingers there in the doorway, slumped to the side a little bit.

    Like Jon, he's been up since the day before, though it's not showing as much with him. An unfortunate side-effect of Tim's life: he's used to it. So keeping any exhaustion he might be feeling under wraps is almost instinctual, by now. "I'm glad it didn't come to that," he says. "Physically, at least. By the looks of the room you were in, they were trying for a psychological angle first."

    There are no windows in the room; none of the areas of the Roost have windows, unfortunately. Necessary to keep it hidden. But it's more spacious than the room Jon was kept in, with all the creature comforts that money can buy. The bedding alone is probably more expensive than some people spend on actual beds.

    Tim's fingers pluck at a stray thread on the sleeve-cuff of his hoodie. Well, Lonnie's hoodie, judging by the stylized version of the Sabot Cat poking its head out of the pocket on the breast. Or a gift from Lonnie, at the very least.

    "I was born in Gotham. It's... a hard city to live in, sometimes. But there are so many people willing to lay down their lives just on the chance that it might be better, some day... and that's enough for me."

    He shakes his head. "So I can't in good conscience turn you down. But we can discuss the details later, when you've eaten. And rested. Please, Jon."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods. "You, too," he says, fixing the man with a firm look. "I don't need to be a telepath to know you're just as tired as I am. Maybe moreso... I was drifting off at the end there."

    He does actually sit down, peers at the food. Actually goes to pull out a protein bar (because rice and vegetables and a brownie doesn't include enough macronutrients) and sets it next to the desk.

    He looks at the desk as he says, "I would have given anything to have your skill and training, when I was your age. I wanted to change the world. Fix... everything. Tear down the old system, make it better. I thought we were, me and my friends. Fixing things, changing things."

    He sighs. "And then... they all died in a fire. I'd be dead, too, if Martin hadn't pulled me out in time. And I found out we hadn't been fixing anything at all. That I was in a cult--an actual, honest-to-goodness /cult/ with a history stretching back hundreds of years. That's why we moved to America. I had to spend a year in deprogramming before Columbia would let me come to classes."

    He looks back over at Tim. "You remind me of myself, a great deal. Not that you're in a cult--the Batman certainly doesn't seem to be trying to take over the world or chase immortality, you do good work--but I just... if I can help you keep from losing everyone you care about..." He shakes his head.

    "I'm rambling a bit," he admits. "Trying to say I care. Thank you for all of this. I'll eat, I promise. And sleep, if... if I can."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim tips his head in a way that is clearly both an acknowledgment and subsequent dismissal of his own need for sleep.

    "There's protein powder in the brownie," he says. Which is sadly not one of Alfred's famous browned butter variety, but there are plenty of people (aside for Tim) who can cook and bake, here. And brownies are a much better way to hit your macros than gross protein shakes.

    His eyelids flicker at the mention of Jon's friends, and how he lost them. The realization that he was in a cult. Tim has very little to say to that, even if Jon argues against the similarities. All he says is "I made a choice."

    What that choice was, Tim doesn't elaborate. But his jaw works, expression fading into something distant. "And I don't regret it, but I know I have to live with the consequences of it until the day I die. Maybe after, too."

    Briefly, his thoughts shift to Jason. Death doesn't guarantee an end to their sacrifice.

    This time, when Jon thanks him, Tim nods. "You're welcome," he says. And then, "Bottom drawer." When and if Jon checks it, he'll find a foil packet with two pills--sleep aids. Nothing extreme, but enough to help ease Jon into slumber, should he need it.

    And then he turns. "If you need anything," and he points at the small terminal set into the wall, which sort of looks like an intercom but more high-tech. "We'll be around."