Chapter Text
It was for once an actually pleasant morning in Gotham. Instead of heavy rainclouds coating the sky, rays of golden light shone down on the troubled city. The light breeze tickled the trees and even bird song could be heard that wasn’t just the squawking of probably mutated seagulls. It was pleasant, serene even.
That should have been enough of a warning.
Tim woke up slowly, except it wasn’t Tim, not as people have known him for years. No, Ben woke up enjoying the weather at first, his eyes shut as he rolled around in bed trying to get comfortable again, but he couldn’t. Something about him was wrong.
His bed wasn’t this large or this soft, his legs shouldn’t feel this long. He sat up, eyes fluttering open like they had been glued shut for years on end. Immediately he panicked.
This wasn’t his room. For starters his room wasn’t this big, there was no wooden panelling, no outrageously large desk piled high with papers, gadgets and empty energy drink cans. He has never even touched an energy drink before!
There was a mirror hung on the wall opposite the bed and who it displayed was a stranger with his face. He was older. Taller. His torso was littered with thick scars. There was even one running along his throat, like someone had tried to slit it, and if that wasn’t troubling Ben had no clue as to what was.
It is safe to say that he was no longer ten years old. That his body had seen battles that he can’t even begin to remember.
What on Earth happened to him? The question echoes in his mind like an unsolvable riddle as tears pulled at the corners of his eyes and his breath froze in his throat. Why doesn’t he remember anything?
Memories flashed through his eyes, each lasting a millisecond and a lifetime. Visions of his parents' deaths haunted his mind. Of him being tugged away from his sister at the airport. Of him kicking and screaming as the social worker dragged him onto the plane. He could hear his social worker’s voice clear as day, a whisper in his ears as she told him the news that he was adopted by a couple that lives in Gotham before they became flooded with his sister's sobs and the distinct cracks of a gun being fired twice.
He could remember all of that, every second, scent and sound but once he got onto the plane his mind was filled with a black void. It was as if he was dead but he couldn’t have been since something clearly happened since that day. He could remember everything except what he wanted, no needed to.
He was on the verge of tears. He would cry but he didn’t know if it was safe. He can’t afford the weakness.
A sharp tap on the door startled Ben from his spiral. A voice came from the other side of the door, deep and smooth like waves over ice. It was calling him Tim, whoever that is.
However, that doesn’t matter because there are other people in this house. People he doesn’t know. People who could hurt him judging by the large bulky shadow the body belonging to the voice cast under the door.
Ben doesn’t think he just acts, grabbing a rounder's bat resting against the dresser and standing to the side of the door. He could hear the sounds of the door knob start to turn slowly, maybe in an attempt to be silent Ben doesn’t know, he doesn’t care.
All that he knows is that he has to act. The door is opened slowly carefully like a parent checking on a sleeping child and with another call to this Tim person the voice is given a face. The man was physically imposing, he looked like he could snap someone's neck in a second and his arms were littered with scars. He could have easily been the bad guy in that game his dad always used to play. Ben doesn't look at his face, he doesn't think just hits the man with the bat where he knew it would hurt the most, directly to his gentleman’s region and then hits him over the head for good measure.
Before he knew it he was sprinting down a corridor lined with expensive vases and priceless artworks, his bat dropped in the hurry. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew that he needed to get out quickly.
His heart pounding louder than a drum in his ears, his feet hitting the wooden floors in their haste. It hurt but he didn’t stop, he just kept on sprinting. He could hear the man shout after him, seemingly having recovered from the injury already.
He ignored him.
He ignored him as the sound of footsteps behind him got louder and louder until they were practically deafening. He ignored them until he no longer could. At the end of the corridor was a vase, large with intricate designs and patterns tediously painted on. It was like something from one of those National Trust houses that he used to visit during the holidays, except this time he didn’t stop to admire it or marvel at the artwork; instead he picked it up and chucked it straight at the man, porcelain crashing apart upon impact and echoing throughout the building.
It slowed him down, but the man still continued shouting out different names like they were calls to battle, and soon Ben found himself cut off by a boy no older than twelve, standing at the top of the stairs like it was his own personal throne. Ben didn’t stop for him however, not as the boy tried to catch him muttering about how strange he was acting, he just barged through and flew down the stairs, skipping three at a time.
He could see a door and that's really all that mattered. Not the man and the boy chasing him, not the fact that he could see more people in the hall shouting at him to stop and calling him Tim. He wanted to scream that his name isn’t Tim and that they are all bloody arseholes but he doesn’t, he needed to conserve his breath.
In the foyer now, his breath heavy, forehead stained with sweat and his heart doing the most convincing imitation of thunder imaginable. He was so close bolting to the door now with a small army of people behind him, telling him to calm down, a hint of concern creeping into their voices and calling him Tim as if that godforsaken name meant anything to him. But how can he calm down when he is being chased through a house he doesn’t remember ever being in?
His eyes light up as he grabs the door knob, twisting it desperately but it doesn’t move not even a centimetre. It’s locked, of course it's locked. He is about ready to give up, let himself be taken, but then he sees a vase filled with umbrellas and more importantly a cane. He grabs it firmly just as he feels an arm wrap tightly around his shoulder and with all of his force he smashes the window next to the door. These people could clearly afford the damages after all.
As glass rains down and small cuts form on his face he is pinned down writhing and squirming, screaming insults and cries for help in the hopes that someone will hear. A deep sense of panic seeped into his bones, somehow more poignant than before, as the man who opened the door, the one who he hit in the balls, picked him up and slung him over his shoulder regardless of his kicking and thrashing. It was clear that to this man, Ben was nothing more than a sack of bones and flesh.