Chapter Text
No further visits from family members occurred before the saboteur stirred.
He moved weakly at first, before bolting upright and scanning his surroundings. He looked terrified—good, a part of Talia purred, the part that was not a mother—and he visibly flinched when he caught sight of her.
Terrified, but not surprised. He knew where he was.
Talia strode inside the cell, watching dispassionately as the saboteur cowered against the far wall. “Timothy Jackson Drake,” she said, and going through his records had been so illuminating. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
She’d been so close to losing Damian. Jason. Her Beloved. The life she carved out here, away from her father, where she could be free and happy.
“I d-didn’t,” he sniveled spinelessly, “I—I didn’t mean to—did—did someone get hurt? I’m sorry—I didn’t push the button—”
“I asked you a question,” Talia cut him off coldly. Did he think failing in the last second was in any way going to help his case?
The saboteur looked like he wished he was anywhere but here. “N-No,” he shook his head, looking up at her with bright, blue eyes. So much like Jason. “I don’t—don’t know—I don’t know what the—the thing did—I’m sorry—”
“It was an EMP,” Talia said coolly, watching the saboteur blanch. “It would’ve disabled every electronic in a mile radius. It would’ve crippled our security system, and it only could’ve been activated from the inside.”
The saboteur kept shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I never meant to—I didn’t know, I swear—I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know?” Talia repeated, mocking. “You don’t seem all too surprised by where you are.” She tilted her head, staring at him from an unmasked face. “Or who you’re with.”
A better denial would be to assume that she was wearing a costume, that this was all some stupid joke, because how could gold-digger Talia Wayne possibly be the vigilante Shrike?
“You know who I am,” Talia said softly, watching the saboteur curl in on himself. “You know who my husband is. You know who my son is.” He didn’t try to refute it. “And you expect me to believe that you didn’t know you were delivering our destruction?”
“I—I—I—”
“Let me ask a different question, Timothy,” Talia said, voice silk over steel. “How long have you been working for Ra’s al Ghul?”
The saboteur looked…confused. “I don’t—I’ve never—”
“We found your internet records,” Talia cut off his denials. “You’ve been talking to him for a year.”
One year she’d been spied on, one year she’d missed one of her father’s operatives working right under her nose, one year her father’s reach had extended right to the walls of her home—
“R-Ramses Head?” the saboteur asked, looking up at her quizzically. Like a child. She couldn’t ignore that niggling part of her any longer.
Something wasn’t adding up. Ra’s al Ghul was a proud man, and so were his servants. There was no point to the denials, she expected cutting words and sneers and threats, not—not a crying child.
“Why don’t you tell me everything, Timothy,” Talia said slowly, “and start from the beginning.”
It was a disturbing tale.
Timothy was a bright child, smart enough to find trouble, which is clearly what he did. Alone, isolated, her father was very good at offering a consoling shoulder to people that believed themselves wronged by the universe, that believed themselves special, and it was a masterful tale of manipulation.
“A-And I said n-no, I s-swear I did, I s-said no, but—” Timothy hiccupped on a breath, “b-but then he star-started talking about m-my parents and—and he knew w-who I w-was and he th-threatened them and I’m sorry—” his voice broke entirely, “I’m r-really sorry, I d-didn’t want to, he—he said my parents—he—” the child suddenly blanched and Talia cast a glance over her shoulder to see what had frightened him. “Please,” the child whispered, looking up at her beseechingly, “p-please, my p-parents—do you know if th-they’re okay?”
A pang. You’ve grown soft, daughter, Ra’s whispered in her ear.
“I’m sorry,” Talia said quietly, watching the child’s face change rapidly to horror, “the plane carrying your parents caught fire. Your parents passed away.” The child looked stricken and she debated with herself for a moment before revealing the rest of it. “This morning. 9:34 AM.”
She’d assumed it was part of the plot, parents dead, son missing, an easy way to fold Timothy Drake into the League of Assassins. Judging by the Drakes’ travel schedule, they hadn’t been home all that often, and a budding criminal mastermind would’ve jumped at the chance to be free.
Instead, Timothy Drake crumpled in grief.
Keening sobs rang out as the child cried and cried, breaking down like she’d shoved a knife into a shatter point. He curled in on himself, holding himself tightly like it would keep him together, rocking as he sobbed, distraught and desolate.
Talia couldn’t ignore the part of her that was a mother any longer. She settled next to the child and drew him closer to gently soothe him in his grief.
Her father had no consideration for the lives he wielded like knives. And what better revenge than to turn those sharpened weapons against the man that honed them?