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No alarm rings. No morning light trickles in through the curtains. But Tim Drake wakes up regardless, his morning routine having been warped into the taste of blood on his teeth, body aching from whatever gruesome way he died just moments before. He’s already sitting up, body warm from sleep and covers still wrapped around his legs. There is no trace of the gore that has splattered his bed over and over again from the monster that lurks beneath his bed frame. Everything almost looks normal.
Almost, almost, almost. A word that seems to haunt him, just as this house does.
Because despite the normality of waking up, the room remains grey and dim, just like it has every single time he has woken up on this same day.
If he looks outside, he will see nothing. If he tries to pry the window open, he will split his nails before ever opening it a crack. If he walks downstairs and tries to hack the door open, he will end up skewered by one of the many beings that have haunted this house since the moment it dug its fingers into him and his family.
He does not know why he is the only one left untouched.
Tim drags himself out of bed, legs twitching from a phantom reminder of the chainsaw that separated them from his body, and he wobbles as he stands up. But then his legs forget, and he is stable.
It’s the same day to try again.
He looks up at the clock, an old, retro thing that someone had once bought him, the hands cheerfully pointing to the eight and the five. It is morning, or it is evening, or it is nothing and everything at all. Time stops having meaning when the hands on your clock stop being a turn of phrase, and instead become literal.
There is no stain on the carpet from where it had smashed his skull open, but he remembers.
He is already dressed, somehow, someway, and steps out into the hallway, because there is a routine, and everything is timed. Right now his room and the hallways are safe.
They will not remain that way.
Damian’s door is shut tightly, and he knows that if he goes in there, he will find his youngest brother curled up, staring blankly at nothing, until he drags himself out of bed as well. Tim know his routine all too well by now. Sometimes he lives, sometimes he dies, and sometimes he stares Tim down with empty eyes as he garrottes him with piano strings.
He doesn’t hold it against him.
Compared to other deaths, it’s fairly quick.
He walks past Alfred, who has already begun the process of sealing Bruce’s room shut with planks and nails, barely blinking at Tim as he drifts pass.
“I’ll make lunch soon, Timothy,” he says quietly, the hammer coated in red.
It is not lunch time. It never is. But he has his routine, and so he will make lunch.
Tim grabs the pack of nails and another hammer, and moves on without a word.
He wanders down the stairs and sees Alfred the Cat and Titus wrapped tightly around each other, both watching him with something close to despair. He reaches down to pet them, fingers curling in downy or thick fur, and tries not to think about how they’ve torn into him and eaten him piece by piece.
It’s okay, though. Only one will still be alive by the end of this cycle.
The dining room and kitchen are empty, save for a single, loosened floorboard. If it is not fixed, Alfred will trip and break his neck when he comes in to make lunch. Hours later, his corpse will rise to drag Tim into the kitchen and boil him alive.
Lunch, after all, needs to be served somehow.
Tim pulls out the nails and hammer, and pries up the board ever so slightly. Inside, a chain glints, and he reaches in to grab it. Another item, another puzzle, another death solved. He closes the gap and nails it shut.
Alfred is safe from this particular danger. At least for a few hours.
He peers at the window, open, yet empty. Sometimes, the Neighbour shows up. Sometimes, she offers kindness.
Sometimes, she just stares at him sadly and mourns
“This house has your family in its grip,” she tuts, long hair brushing his cheeks. “It feeds on your family’s misery. Your brother needs you now more than ever.”
Which one? he wants to scream. Because he has tried to be there for every brother, has tried to find a way to save them, but one is a ghost lingering in a locked room, one is a wall that charges with violence, and one floats through the house aimlessly before killing himself.
There is no saving them.
Tim has tried.
Oh, he has tried.
Both with mercy and patience, and with a fire axe digging into their bones to try and free them in death.
It does not work.
Tim doesn’t think it ever will.
Damian is the only one he’s gotten close to saving, but every time it ends the same way. His younger brother, cowering in bed, as the grandfather clock chimes and the front door slams open.
Tim leaves the kitchen, passing Alfred as he goes.
“I’ll make lunch soon, Timothy,” he repeats, voice like static, before adding, “let your brother know.”
He brushes by, here and there like dust in the light, but there is no crash, no snap. Instead, the sound of a pot being placed on the stove echoes like a scream, and Tim can move on. Titus and Alfred the Cat have moved, and already he wonders which one he’ll save. Titus is easy; just attach the chain to his collar and lead him to Damian’s room.
Alfred the Cat, in contrast, is difficult. The same chain used to lead Titus can be used to keep the piano cover up, stopping it from falling and beheading the cat, coating the ivory keys with red. He can then be handed over to Damian who comes down to play piano. But if he saves Alfred the Cat, then Titus ends up shot by one of Alfred’s shotguns falling out of its hiding place and firing.
And it’s never the same one.
Either death destroys Damian, but Tim has yet to find out how the hell to save both of them.
He peers up at another clock. Some time has passed. Not enough to warrant panic, but enough to tell him to get a move on.
“Titus,” he calls out half-heartedly, knowing the dog won’t respond. “Come here!”
He waits for a moment. No clack, clack, clack of nails echoes out.
The chain jangles in his pockets, and he goes to the music room.
He saved Titus last time. It’s only fair to save Alfred the Cat this round.
He peers into the music room, and spots Alfred cleaning himself on the piano keys, the grey light of the nothingness outside shining on his sleek black fur. Shooing him off does nothing. Scaring him results in scratched out eyeballs. Treats don’t entice him.
The damned thing is determined to die on the piano.
But Tim won’t let him.
He wanders around the side of the piano, hand reaching up to grip the heavy cover and loop the chain through the little stand thing for the cover. Countless resets, and he still has no clue what it’s called. The chain goes through easily, and he tugs it back, back, back, watching the thin metal rod ease from the weight being lifted.
Finally, it’s stable enough, and Tim holds the blasted thing up until Alfred has finished cleaning himself, and Damian wanders in.
“Get your cat,” Tim says hurriedly, wondering if this time, he’ll be fast enough to find Titus and stop his brains from splattering against the wall.
Damian sends him a dirty glare.
“I hate you,” he hisses out, because that’s all he ever says in the loops. Varying expressions of hatred, from Tim, to the house, to-
Well.
Damian finally scoops up Alfred the Cat, burying his face in the soft fur. The cat purrs loudly, and Tim finally lets the chain loose.
For a moment, the metal rod holds strong.
And then it snaps, thin metal launching itself at Tim’s eye at an angle he knows will bury into his brain. He’s been here before, after all.
He doesn’t duck, because he wants to try something this time. It’s failed every other time, but it’s not like he’s under pressure.
Either he’ll catch it, or he won’t.
The piano slams shut with a bang, and Alfred yowls, while Damian shrieks. Tim opens his fist, palm slick with blood.
But the metal rod is in his hand.
He makes a mental note; a new item has been obtained. Every other time he’s ducked, the metal lodges itself into the wall too deeply for him to pull out.
“What-?!” Damian starts to yell, but Tim can’t hear him. He pushes past the younger boy, hand reaching out to give Alfred a single pat, before he’s bolting down the hallways.
“Titus!” he shouts as loudly as possible. “Fetch!”
There is silence.
And then-
The sound of clicking nails, running through the hallway and scratching up Alfred’s floors. The Great Dane skids into view, large body slamming against the wall as he rounds a corner, and Tim holds his breath as the force of it knocks a shotgun out from the ceiling.
He watches as it falls, watches the dog come bounding towards him, and throws the rod behind him.
Titus rushes past him just as the shotgun hits the floor, the jolt of it forcing it to fire. A hole burns into the wallpaper, just behind where Titus ran past him.
And Tim begins to laugh for the first time in a long while.
The shotgun rubs against his shoulder from where he’s slung it, and the weight is awkward and unfamiliar. When Alfred calls out for lunch, Tim mentally marks off the first half of the day. He’s already made immense progress. Now he just has to keep making progress. He wanders down the halls to the kitchen, already knowing what he will see.
Alfred, standing in front of a large pot, stirring mindlessly. Four bowls of soup, all steaming and perfectly made, waiting on the counter.
And yet-
Damian sits at the kitchen table, Titus at his feet and Alfred the Cat around his neck. A bowl of soup is in front of him, and he takes careful sips.
Tim pauses, staring in wonder. This is new. Did saving Titus and Alfred change things this much?
“Timothy,” Alfred murmurs, and his head turns to look at the old man. He’s staring at the gun.
“Be careful with that. Your Father won’t be happy to see it.”
It’s another deviation. Tim looks at Alfred, throat drying. But before he can answer, a bowl of soup is in his hands, and he holds it out. “Bring this to your brother.”
Alfred isn’t looking him in the eyes. He isn’t looking anywhere.
Tim nods anyway.
“Yes, Alfred.”
This, at least, has not changed.
He takes the bowl of soup, and despite the steam wafting from the liquid, the bowl is ice cold. It burns into his fingers, and he can feel frost forming on his fingertips. He does not say anything. He does not drop the bowl.
Doing so is an instant death, after all, with Alfred grabbing the boiling pot of soup in a rage and throwing it at him, the high heat melting skin and clothes together.
Tim turns away from the imminent threat, and moves towards the next one.
The brother Alfred refers to is never Dick or Damian.
He wishes it was.
He climbs up down the stairs into the basement, carefully skipping over the third step that has teeth glinting in the dim light. The damp, musty smell of the basement filters in through his nose, and he flicks the light switch on the moment he steps onto the concrete floor, not willing to chance the claws that crawl towards him from the shadows created by the hallway light.
Jason stands in the flickering light, unmoving. His chest does not rise or fall, and his eyes are blank. He hefts the crowbar from one hand to the other, because the house delights in making them suffer.
“Lunch time,” Tim calls out, watching the way those gloved hands flex around the cold metal.
Behind him, the fire axe beckons.
Jason is tricky. He does not care about the food, and is instead a blank slate of... nothing. He’ll kill Tim without thinking, face splattering with blood, but his expression never changes.
In order to survive this encounter, Tim throws the soup at him. The bowl smashes against the floor, and thick soup laps against Jason’s heavy boots. Neither of them move. Not until the light flickers just so, and causes something on the floor to gleam.
Jason kneels down to pick up the watch that slept at the bottom of the shattered bowl. He cradles it close. Tears stream down his face, and he cries silently.
And Tim can move forward. The fire axe is a familiar weight in his hands, and even more so on his belt. When he turns back around, Jason is gone, but the heavy footfalls against the wooden floor above reassures him. He’ll be on his way to the kitchen now, which is a strange thing to think about given Damian’s presence.
For once, two brothers are... safe. Though not really. They’ll never be safe so long as the clock strikes 11:47 and the front door slams open.
Tim exits the basement, dashing up the stairs as the eyes start appearing in the shelves of wine, long fingered hands reaching towards him. The house is angry.
Furious even.
Tim doesn’t give a shit.
He slams the door shut just as something brushes against his back, and he hears it scream as the door slams against its fingers.
The clock above the door strikes five.
The race against time is starting to amp up. Tim shrugs the gun to a more comfortable position, and tries to think what will happen next given the changes. Damian has Titus and Alfred the Cat, Jason is upstairs, but Dick...
He swallows, dry throat scraping against itself.
Bathroom first. Smashing the mirror won’t take much time, and it will take out another enemy. Knowing the house, it will make Damian spill soup over himself, and drag him into the white expanse that will spell his doom.
Tim doesn’t quite run, but he shuffles up the stairs to the bathroom with speed, ducking under the chandelier that swings towards him and tries to smash his face in. At the top of the stairs, the fucking rug is waiting.
He hates that rug. Hates how it inches towards him, slow and unnoticeable. Hates how it picks up speed and starts to chase.
Hate the laughter that escapes it when it captures him and skewers him with spikes.
At this time, the carpet is slower. Less inclined to chase. But it will.
He darts around it, hears the soft shushing sound it makes as it tries to reach him. He reaches the bathroom first, but he knows that when he leaves, it will be waiting.
The bathroom is gleaming. It is the brightest room in the entire house, tiles pristine and porcelain polished. Beautiful and cold and untouched.
The mirror reflection is even more so. Soft-cheeked and sweet, the Tim that looks back at him is smiling. Every blink brings the reflection closer.
He knows what happens if you stare too long. Has felt the reflection burst out and tear his heart from his chest, eyes glinting like too-pristine tiles and its smile turning into a grin full of broken glass.
It doesn’t care who its prey is. He’s seen it grab Damian before. Has seen the aftermath, white tiles smeared with blood, a doppelgänger of his brother reaching out with nails that gleam under the bright, bright light, before he smashes it again and again and again, each slam spraying him with dust and something milky as he tears out the dead heart of his brother-
Obviously, it has to go.
He lifts up the hammer, and begins to break the mirror. The bathroom is silent. There is no screaming, no puff of smoke, no flicker of light. One moment, the mirror is whole, and the next, it is broken.
It is a strangely fitting metaphor for his situation.
But he isn’t here to dwell on the hows and whys. There isn’t enough time for that.
How strange, that even with a looping day, he still has to rush. Death lurks around every corner after all.
Tim opens the bathroom door, and stares at the rug lurking close by, blocking the way to Bruce’s room. The next piece, the next step, the next clue to finally ending all of this.
It inches closer.
He bolts.
The carpet hisses as it stretches forward, tassels trying to reach him like tiny little arms, and he lifts his axe up, smashing into the boarded up room of his father. Splinters hurl themselves at his face, but the boards crumble and the door opens. A spike darts up to try and pin his foot, but he dances into the room, and watches the rug slink away, almost sulkily.
The door shuts.
And the fetid stench of rotting flesh fills the room.
Tim takes a step forward. And another. His breath sits heavy at the bottom of his stomach, and he can feel his throat closing up. He already knows what he will find.
He swallows, and tries not to retch.
The walk-in closet swings open, and Dick’s corpse lays there, face unrecognisable from the fists that caved his skull open.
“What a sight,” a voice sighs into his ear, and Tim tries not to sob. “You’d think Bruce would be better at cleaning up after himself.”
The translucent figure of Dick perches on the shoe rack beside him, and there is nothing but serenity on his face. He is just as trapped as Tim is, as they all are, and yet, the House cannot torture him further.
“Don’t cry, Timmy,” Dick chuckles out, a finger reaching towards him to catch his falling tears. They go through it, of course.
Because Dick is dead, and he’s never been able to figure out if this is real, or another way the House is screwing with his head.
“You’ve done so well, Tim. Damian’s feeling safe, with Titus and Alfred the Cat. And Jason is remembering more just by seeing him and Alfred together. You’re doing such a good job. I’m proud of you.”
Each word is a fist to his stomach, and Tim tries not to keen. Words bubble up in his throat, but the tightness chokes them off before he can even open his mouth.
Dick smiles, and it hurts more than anything else.
“You’re so close, Tim. I promise. Soon, this will be nothing more than a bad dream.”
And deep below, a grandfather clock begins to chime.
Even all the way upstairs, he can hear the front door slam open.
Father’s home.
“You know what you have to do,” Dick murmurs into the closet. Tim nods, shouldering his gun and hefting his axe. His hammer knocks against his hip, and he forces himself out of the closet, bloody shoe prints trailing after him.
The heavy footsteps of the thing that was once Bruce echoes throughout the house. When Tim opens the door, the rug is gone.
It always disappears when Bruce shows up.
The stairs creak as each foot thumps against the wood. And finally, at the top of the stairs, Bruce appears.
He is rail thin, face worn and rotting, yet somehow, he takes up all the space in the hallway. He’s a black hole of despair and grief. He never speaks. He never blinks.
He just kills.
Tim swallows, and raises the gun.
He pulls the trigger, once, twice, three times, before it clicks, empty. Each shot hits Bruce directly, punching holes and splattering sawdust and woodworms to the floor.
He continues forward.
Tim dumps the gun and pulls out the fire axe, swinging it wildly as Bruce gets closer, and he lands a hit on the thing’s arm, the joint popping off like a wooden doll’s and thumping to the floor. His axe shatters.
It doesn’t even slow him down.
Tim screams as he raises up the hammer and tries to maul Bruce’s face, tries to cave it in just like he caved Dick’s face in, but long pale fingers reach out and wrap themselves around his throat.
He scrabbles against the heavy hand holding him up, woodchips lodging themselves under his fingernails, and Bruce doesn’t even flinch despite the gut wound Tim shot into him only moments before.
He gasps for air, and the fingers tighten.
It wasn’t enough. An axe, a shotgun, a hammer and-
Still not enough.
And yet, as Bruce- Father- whatever it is- digs his fingers into Tim’s neck, puncturing the pulse points and slowly tearing his jugular out with cold nails, Tim’s only thought is-
-He’ll just have to try again this morning.
No alarm rings. No morning light trickles in through the curtains. But Tim Drake wakes up regardless, his morning routine having been warped into the ache of his throat, and the feeling of blood slowly choking him.
There is no blood under his fingertips.
And he is ready to start again.