Chapter Text
Tim was vaguely certain he was going insane. Which was terrible. Awful even. But it was also reasonable. Especially considering the circumstances.
The rock was red, glowing- sure, Tim would give them that- and filled with cracks. But it was also… normal. Tap water normal. Coffee shop normal. Not-magical-in-the-slightest normal.
“Are you–” Tim spoke, turning to Bruce. “B, look me in the eyes here– are you positive this is a magical item?” It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him. He just knew that there were a lot of false alarms. Most citizens didn’t quite realize that not every colored rock on planet Earth was worthy of the Justice League’s time.
Bruce sighed. “You know the rules. We have to check every item. Just in case.”
Great. So Tim was getting all the junk Bruce didn’t have time to deal with.
He flipped over the file on the table, skimming through it. The rock came from Gotham City Museum? Tim hadn’t taken them as the type to pull shit like this.
“Breaking and healing itself?” He asked, focusing on the ‘reason for submission’ section of the file in his hands. His mock awe was blistering with sarcasm. “Wow. Should we put it next to the penny? Or how about the dinosaur?”
Bruce didn’t look amused. His face was blank, empty of anything. Even an eye twitch. Which, was fair. It wasn’t that funny of a joke. But it was also, rude. He could at least pretend to laugh.
"Just... play around with it," Bruce said. "Listen, if you don’t find anything, just put that on your report. And that will be that. Constantine already tested it and found nothing, so you just need to do the final checks for me, okay?"
Was he just... admitting to handing Tim his discarded busy work? Like that made it all any better?
Bruce continued. "If Constantine thinks it's not a magical object, I doubt you'll find anything. But it's protocol. So put it through the tests and mark it as a negative. Then, we can throw it away and I won't have to think about it ever again." He rubbed the side of his forehead like the rock had given him a headache. Which, in Tim's opinion, was melodramatic.
Screaming would not do Tim any good, even if it was warranted. So he swallowed down his anger and said, “Sounds great."
If Bruce could tell from his voice how not-great it sounded, he didn't let on. Just turned and walked down the tunnel out of the Batcave. And that was that. Conversation over. Tim had given in without so much as a final fighting word.
He looked at the rock after Bruce had left, turning it over in his hands. It was as if they had hired the most normal rock ever and plastered bioluminescent moss all over it.
He shook his head and put it away. He'd deal with it later. Set a reminder on his computer in case he ends up forgetting about it.
After all, what was the rush?
-
Tim stared at the Batcomputer, knees tucked into his chest. He felt like a zombie. More so than Jason could ever be. He was confined to a sickly cave in the early hours of the morning, rotting as the shine from the screen grew blurry. He was awash in the light from the monitor, its turquoise gleam coloring his cheeks and flaring against his eyes.
He clicked through report after report, managing three separate windows simultaneously. In the first, he was researching rumors on Scarecrow's newest batch of Fear Gas. In the second, he was scheduling three separate Wayne Enterprise meetings with multiple different companies. And in the last one, he was ordering a mug with a poorly photoshopped photo of Nightwing at a barbecue. With a caption that read, "Hey Thirsty! I'm Nightwing." In bold. The only reason he hadn't bought it yet was because he was worried Dick might actually like it.
A notification popped up in the left corner, glaringly bright. Tim had to stare at it for a few seconds just to discern what it said. Then he needed to stare for a few more, his mind too muddled to quickly comprehend it.
"Complete the magic check on that rock."
Tim nearly groaned at the thought. But he forced his body to move, swerving the chair around and grabbing the rock off one of the tables. He moved back in front of the Batcomputer, running his fingers over the fissures in the stone. Were the cracks in the same place they were before?
Curiously, Tim dug his nails into the fractures, attempting to pry it open. When that didn’t work he grabbed a hammer. If it really was just something normal, there was no harm in Tim breaking it, right?
He held the hammer above the rock, positioning it over a weak spot. But right before he could strike it, two things happened at once.
The first was pain. All-consuming pain. So unavoidable it blotted out his vision with staining white dots.
Tim dropped the hammer and pushed his chair back, his mind whirling. His knees gave out underneath him and he crumpled in on himself, hands pressing against his forehead, face paling as he gasped for air, he needed it to stop.
And yet, the second thing to happen was much more powerful than the pain. Much more visceral.
It was sorrow.
It felt like a large, gaping hole had ripped its way through his chest, tearing his flesh apart. He was so sad. Like he was experiencing grief all over again. Like he had just lost something important.
Tim didn't know when he had begun crying. All he knew was that when the pain halted, rolling to a tentative stop, tears were slipping down his cheeks.
Shakily, he pushed himself off the ground and slumped back into his seat. He sat there for a moment, taking deep, heavy breaths.
Then, he noticed the rock. In his struggle, it had fallen onto the floor. Tim rushed to pick it up, cradling it to his chest. Why the hell had he ever wanted to break it? The rock was important. Special. The idea of breaking it made Tim shudder at the thought.
The rock was certainly the cause of that pain. Which meant it was magical after all. But to manipulate emotions like that... Something about that felt weird to Tim. Concerning.
Tim let the rock rest in his lap and clicked through the computer, rubbing at his eyes absentmindedly. He pulled up the report, staring at the first question. Then, as if in a daze, he wrote, "Not magical; false alarm."
If he told them the truth, they'd take the rock away. And Tim had– he'd already lost him once. He couldn't lose him agai– it again. Tim couldn't lose it again.
Besides, he had more research he needed to do. There was something going on with the rock, and he was determined to figure it out.
Then, he looked back at the rock and tucked it closer to his chest. It was cold against his hands. But something inside of him felt like it was supposed to be warm. And breathing.
-
“What are you doing?”
Alfred looked up at Tim, confusion vivid on his features. He looked down at the rock in his hands before glancing back up at Tim again. As if the apprehension in the other’s voice was unwarranted. "I'm cleaning up? Is something the matter, Master Timothy? Master Bruce claimed you said this rock was normal."
Tim stared at the rock, unable to take his eyes off it. “...Right,” he said slowly. “I did say that, didn’t I? In the reports…” He walked forward, moving to pry the rock from Alfred’s hands. "Uh, would you mind if I kept hold of it? I'd want to keep it for just a little longer."
“Keep it?” Alfred asked. But he relented the rock to Tim, who took it gratefully into his arms.
The rock was safe. Tim could protect it again. “Yes. Just– just for now.”
Tim ignored Alfred’s odd look and walked away. That was close. That was really close. Alfred could have accidentally broken the rock… or discovered it was magical.
Tim entered his room, kicking stray clothes out of his way as he went. He had to put the rock somewhere. A place that wasn’t too suspicious but also wasn’t too obvious. He opted to rest the rock on the highest shelf he could find, the object emitting a soft glow as he did.
-
Jason gave a loud, obnoxious yawn as he lounged in the chair across from Tim. Hamlet was propped open in his hands, his eyes scanning the page as if the play was simply a light read. Tim was positioned on the other side of the room, cross-legged on his bed, computer open as he typed up a research report for W.E.
They sat there in silence, the only noise between them besides keys clicking and pages turning was the occasional grunt or muttering from Jason, commenting on the state of Hamlet’s reasonableness. He kept calling the Prince of Denmark stupid, as though shocked by his actions, even though Tim was vaguely certain this was his tenth time reading it.
The peace lasted until Jason leaned back, noticing Tim’s shelf.
“Hey, what is that?” Jason stretched his legs before bouncing off the chair. He crossed the room, moving around stacks of discarded books and heaps of trash. “I think I’ve seen one of these before,” he said, grabbing the rock from the top shelf. “You get this at a pawn shop or something?”
Tim bolted up, moving off the bed to grab the rock from Jason’s hands. “Um… no.” He cleared his throat. “No. I just, uh, found it.” Internally, he winced. Real smart sounding, Tim. Way to go with that one. “I thought it looked cool, that’s all.”
“How do you think it glows like that?” He asked, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s the light? Some sort of reflection thing?”
“Bioluminiscent moss?” Tim suggested weakly, knowing that wouldn’t throw Jason off the trail.
“Here,” Jason said, holding out his hand. “Can I see it?”
“Uh…” Tim could hand over the rock to Jason. But he also had to keep the rock safe. He had to. Because last time he failed. Because last time he was too– “No,” he said, bringing the rock a little closer. “I wouldn’t want it to break.”
Jason shrugged. “Uh, okay. Keep your pet rock, I guess.”
Tim hunched his shoulders. “No, it’s not that– I just– I–” I couldn’t protect him and now he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s go– What the fuck am I thinking about?
Jason rolled his eyes. “Chill, Timberlina. I’m joking.”
Tim managed a laugh. But his mind was reeling. What were those thoughts? Were they because of the rock? Or did they come from somewhere else?
“What do you know about magic?” Tim asked abruptly. And he could tell even Jason was started by the swift change in topic.
“Uh, I don’t know shit about magic, kid. You should really ask… anyone else. Like– Genuinely anyone else."
Tim sighed. “Okay. Thanks.”
Jason narrowed his eyes, and Tim suddenly felt very observed. “Why?”
Tim looked away, hoping his nerves didn’t show on his face. “Nothing. No reason.”
Jason didn't seem to believe him.
-
Tim shuffled his way through the crowded dressing room, surrounded on all sides by performers entranced by their mirrors– dotted with lights. The space was dim, almost dark, with no overhead lights except for a few flickering bulbs dangling from the ceiling. It smelled faintly of peppermint and dirt.
The room was abuzz with noise, everyone talking over each other– someone even singing opera-style in the background. Tim squeezed past magicians and clowns, pushing his way through, before stopping at two ballerinas.
"Uh, excuse me," he said, hoping they could hear him through the roaring chatter. "Do you happen to know where Zatanna is?"
One of the girls looked up at him, before glancing at her friend and pointing toward a door in the back.
"Thanks," Tim said, leaving them to put on their pointe shoes in peace. He headed toward the door, round and wooden and out of place amongst the cluster of performers. It squeaked softly as Tim opened it.
Stepping into the room, Tim realized it was nothing more than a smaller, more private dressing room compared to the ones outside it. In the back was Zatanna, standing in front of a mirror fully dressed in her stage outfit and adjusting her top hat.
When Tim entered she didn’t even look up. And yet, her voice boomed through the room when she spoke. “Red Robin. Here to watch the performance?”
Tim shook his head, even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t see him through the mirror. “Not tonight, Zatanna. I have a question I need to ask you."
“I’m on in five,” Zatanna said flatly.
“A quick question,” Tim amended. “It's about magic."
She sounded a bit more intrigued at that. "Go on."
"Can it create emotions out of thin air?”
“Well… Hm.” Zatanna stopped fiddling with her hat and turned around to face Tim. “Technically, yes. But that’s quite difficult to do. Usually, the best way to accomplish any emotional manipulation magically would be to draw upon pre-existing emotions. Or emotions that were taken from the target beforehand.”
“Taken?”
“Yes, like if they took your memories, those memories have emotions attached to them. So theoretically speaking they could rip the emotions away from the memories and force the feelings back to you. But it’s not a clean-cut situation. Some memory pieces still latch on to the emotions and it’s…” She waved her hand around. “Messy. It’s all very messy.”
Tim processed the information, categorizing it in his head. So either the rock was more powerful than expected, it was drawing upon his emotions, or it had stolen his memories. All... wonderful options.
She looked at Tim, crossing her arms. “You aren’t planning to manipulate anyone’s emotions, are you?”
“Not at all.”
A soft buzz rang through the room. Zatanna looked up, her coy smile turning more genuine. “That’s my cue.”
”Break a leg.”
“Feel free to stay and enjoy the show,” she said, walking past him. “It’s going to be quite the spectacle.”
-
The manor was flooded with purple. Purple. Purple. Purple. The streamers colored the ceiling a deep violet, while the cake was decorated with lavender frosting. And almost everyone had the wrapping for their present to be some shade of eggplant or indigo– without any coordination at all.
And Steph was loving it.
"You know, I'm into the new wardrobe change. We should keep the manor like this. It really brightens up the place." Steph grinned at Tim as she sat down at the dinner table.
"Yeah, yeah," Tim said. “Change the Batcave to the Spoilercave. Just for you.”
”Exactly!” She said. “You get it.”
In the corner of his eye, Tim noticed Alfred enter the room. The butler held a tray of food in his hand as he placed it on the table. “Happy birthday, my dear,” he said. And Steph beamed at him.
"Thanks, Alfie. When’s the rest of the group getting here?”
“Very shortly, I believe. Should I check with Master Bruce?”
“No, it’s fine, it’s fine.” She leaned back in her chair, making a popping sound with her lips. She looked to the presents, her smile turning more excited by the moment. "You get me anything good this year, Alfie?”
Alfred smiled, something glimmering in his eyes. “I got you quite the excellent present, Miss Stephanie. If I do say so myself.”
Tim laughed. “Knowing Alfred, he’s going to blow the competition out of the water.”
“Every present has its merits, Master Timothy.”
-
Everyone had moved from the dining table to the living room, crowding around Stephanie as she opened her presents. She seemed elated with most of her gifts, even though as the years went by it became easier and easier to tell everyone's gift-giving patterns. In Tim’s opinion, at least.
Bruce's were always extremely expensive, something large and extravagant and almost always unusable. Dick's came in acts of service, while Jason always managed to tiptoe the line between thoughtful and rude. Steph's were funny and Cass's and Duke's were more practical, even if personalized. The only wildcard was Alfred. And hopefully Tim. He would hate to be predictable.
Steph gasped when she undid the wrapping. “You didn’t,” she said.
He grinned. All teeth. “I did.”
She held in her hands a scrapbook filled with pictures of her. Tim had gotten some from her mother, or Dick's and Cass's photo album. But a good amount was from his own camera. Pictures snapped at times she was too engrossed in the moment to notice. His favorites were the ones of her mid-laugh.
"Tim these are all so great. You–“ She cut herself off, taking one of the photos in the book and showing it to Tim. It was one where she had just turned seven, head bent back, face mid-laugh. “Where did you get this photo?”
Tim inspected his nails, failing to hide his smile. "Your mom."
"Ugh she’s such a traitor," she muttered happily. She looked up and met Tim's eye. "Thank you. Seriously. I’m keeping this forever and ever.”
“Happy birthday,” he said in reply.
She nudged him in the shoulder affectionately before turning to Alfred’s present. His was in a bag– a purple bag, of course, but it also had yellow tissue paper poking out from the top.
When Steph looked inside the bag, she froze, eyes widening.
Leaning down, she pulled out a paper from the bag– a drawing. Although Tim could only see the back of it. “Alfie…” she said. “This is…”
“I had it specially commissioned just for you.”
“Oh fuck. God, Alfie...” She gave a laugh that sounded like a sob. “This is gorgeous.”
Cass tilted her head and Steph moved to show it to her, eventually passing it around so the rest of the family could see.
It was a beautiful drawing. One that depicted Steph as Robin, stared up at Spoiler. The Hills in the background.
They seemed to be mid-conversation, with Robin pointing at Spoiler’s hood, mouth open wide, and Spoiler leaning forward, listening. In the background, the bat-signal could be seen, twinkling off in the distance. It looked… normal. As if the two people existing at the same time together was possible. And Tim could see why Steph liked it so much. It had an air of approval about it. Like it was saying that if Robin Steph could see Steph now, she would be proud.
But Tim wasn’t too focused on that. He was focused on the strokes. The style. God, Tim could recognize that style anywhere. He held it for a moment, staring, before he jumped out of his chair and turned toward the staircase.
“Wha–? Tim!”
“Sorry Steph,” he said. He was apologetic. But his brain was working too fast to make it sound genuine. “I just need to borrow this for a moment.” Before anyone could stop him, he began running. Up the stairs and into his room, scrambling for his desk.
He shoved papers and books aside, letting them fall to the floor without so much as a care. Anything and everything in his way was discarded in favor of the search. And at the bottom of all the trash, he found it.
He held up that kid’s– Damian’s– drawing. The techniques were so similar it was painful.
Had Damian painted this? At Alfred’s request? But wasn’t he working for the Riddler? (A kid working for the Riddler. Gotham was so fucked up.) But why would Alfred–
Steph burst through his door, staring at him in a mix of confusion, and worry, and bewilderment. "Tim,” she said. “What the fuck is going on?!”
Tim hid Damian's drawing behind his back, holding Steph’s one out to her. “Sorry, I thought it was something but it was... nothing. Here’s your gift back.”
“...Thanks.” She said, grabbing the drawing and casting him a concerned glance. Tim pretended not to notice it.
They headed back down to the living room and Tim forced his face back to calm and collected. He gave nothing away as he said the same half-baked excuse had had given to Steph. No one seemed to quite believe him, but it wasn’t outwardly troubling enough to keep the topic going.
Tim didn't care what they did or didn't think was happening. Because inside, Tim could hear his heart thrumming in his ears. Like he was at the tipping point of a breakthrough.
-
The hostess stared at him, bleary-eyed and irritated. "Hello," she said, her voice clipped. She shifted around, standing at the reception desk awkwardly. Tim felt a little bad about the whole thing. But there was no one else waiting to be seated, so surely she had free time to talk.
“I just need to ask you a few questions about Damian. He works here, I assume you know him?” Tim ignored how much his heart hurt at the sound of the boy’s name.
Tim had forgotten to investigate more about Damian since the kid’s whole thing at the gala. Which was weird, the kid was something Tim was certain he wouldn’t forget. But with Steph’s reminder, he had grown curious again. And if he also just wanted to see the boy again, no one would have to know.
He had asked Alfred about the drawing and the man claimed he had commissioned it from a stranger he met on the street. Which wasn't helpful to Tim in the slightest.
The hostess looked at the notepad in her hand, as if trying to run through a list of excuses. A list that must have failed her, because she said, ”Um… sure. Let me go ask.”
Tim watched her leave the desk, listening passively to the trivial conversations happening distantly around him. While he waited, he wrote imaginary code for a video game he would never design and made a list of all the Wayne Enterprise work he needed to do.
And then, once that was done, his thoughts turned to the rock.
It was definitely connected to something. A plot or scheme to destroy Gotham, maybe? Coincidences never happened. Not to Tim.
“The easiest answer is the rock’s purely drawing on my emotions… but it could also be part of a plot to manipulate me. Destroy the family from the inside out? Could the rock–”
“Rock?” The hostess asked, popping up in the edge of Tim’s vision. She had returned to the front desk.
Tim blinked at her. “What rock?”
She tilted her head. “The rock you were just talking about?”
…Had Tim said that out loud?
His mouth slid into a thin line. “It’s nothing,” he said, hurrying to change the subject. “Did you find out anything? About Damian?”
She clicked her tongue, giving him a look many people had worn on their faces lately. Why did people keep looking at him like that? Like he was losing his mind or something.
“Nope.” She said, her voice tilted in a way that made Tim sure she was lying. “Don’t know what happened to him at all. We fired him a while ago. He’s long gone.”
“Oh. Okay.” Tim should question her, ask about where he went or if he’s contacted her since. But he felt so… tired. Like even thinking about Damian was taking energy out of him. In the back of his mind, a headache was beginning. “Sure. Whatever.”
-
Arriving at home, Tim tried to hurry to his room, stopped only by Alfred in the entryway to the kitchen. The butler gave Tim an appraising look, unhappy at whatever he saw.
“My boy,” he said. “You look terrible. Where were you?”
“At some restaurant. And I look fine.”
Alfred pressed the pack of his hand to Tim’s forehead. “You’re burning up. I think you might have a fever.”
“Fever?” Tim asked. “I’m not sick. I’m fine.”
“Master Timothy, I insist, let me check you over for–”
“I’m fine, Alfred.” Tim put effort into making his voice sound soft instead of hysterical.
Alfred didn’t look pleased, but he let Tim pass.
A fever... did the rock cause that too? And why? Was it trying to stop Tim from accomplishing something? Or maybe Tim was looking in the wrong direction. Maybe he was really just sick.
If he was being honest, he preferred magic rock disease over a real illness.
Tim returned to his room and grabbed the rock off his shelf. Maybe Tim could investigate the rock’s properties more? Determine if it was alien or earthly. That would be a good start.
But Tim worried about breaking it. He wouldn’t want to hurt the rock.
A wave of nausea overcame him, and Tim gritted his teeth together. Was that really all the rock's doing? The fever? The nausea? The headaches he keeps getting? What was so important that the rock was hiding?
Or maybe... all that pain meant he was getting close. Closer to figuring it out. And the rock was scared.
So caught up in the thrill of discovery, the strain of the headache, and the burn of the fever, Tim didn't even notice Alfred peeking through the doorway, frowning.
-
Tim spent August ninth sobbing his eyes out into the palm of his hands. He lay in his bedroom for most of the day, accomplishing very little- if anything at all. Which, compared to the rest of his family, wasn't half bad.
-
Tim was greeted bright and early– around two o’clock in the afternoon– with the scene of his family all huddled in the living room. They were all there. Even Alfred. And yet, Tim felt a recurring ache in his bones again. Like it was somehow incomplete.
But, he could deal with that later. He had more concerning things to focus on. Like the fact that they weren't talking. No laughter or banter or meaningless small talk. No, they were staring. At Tim.
“So, uh,” Tim said nervously, waiting for someone to say something. “What the fuck is going on?”
Jason crossed his arms like it was obvious. “We’re holding an intervention, dipshit."
Tim blanched. “Intervention?” He looked around the living room. “For what? My sleep schedule? Guys, it’s getting better, I swear. Why would you need to–” And then he saw what Cass was holding. “Where the hell did you get that?”
The rock's glow had dulled, but it was still unmistakable. "You're room," Cass said. "Top shelf."
Fuck. Tim should have hidden it.
He tried to wrench it out of Cass's hands, but she was quicker and kept moving it just out of his reach.
"Give it back!" Tim pressed.
"No."
Tim stopped his struggle and pulled back, looking at the rest of his family. “Why do you have that?”
“We think it’s doing something to you,” Duke said. “You’ve been acting weird lately and we just... we're worried about you Tim. And we think the rock might have something to do with it."
“It wouldn’t be the first time a magical object was here in the manor, manipulating someone," Bruce said. “We’re here to stop it before it gets too late and–”
“Oh, I know it’s manipulating me,” Tim said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
"You–” Bruce paused. "What?"
"It's not the most subtle magic in the entire world, it's pretty obvious about what it's doing."
"Okay," Dick said. "That's... good. So we'll take it to the Justice League and–"
"No!" Tim said frantically. To frantically, perhaps. Maybe the rock was doing more than he thought.
"What?" Steph asked. "What do you mean, 'no?'"
"I mean, you can't take it away from me. I still need to figure out what it's doing and– uh–“ he floundered for excuses. “It’s part of a mystery, Dick. If we give it away, we'll forget about-" Tim stopped in his tracks. Everything clicked into place. That weird incomplete feeling. All those headaches. "Forget! Forget! Oh, of course. That’s the one it’s using. Memory magic." He had to talk to Martian Manhunter.
“Tim–” Dick reached for him. Tim knew that type of voice.
“No. No." Tim said, backing away. "I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m not under some magical alien control." Okay. Maybe he was under some magical alien control. Just a little bit. But that was not the point. "I need you to trust me on this.”
Dick just kept looking more and more worried.
Okay so… not going great. There were a lot of ways this could have happened, and this was definitely a failure of an attempt. But, in his defense, he planned to never tell them until after he solved the problem. And then everyone would cheer and thank him.
Tim looked at Jason pleadingly.
Jason snorted. “No help here. Who do you think helped Alfred and Bruce piece all this together?”
So Jason had abandoned him too. "Just... give me back the rock and let me talk to Martian Manhunter, okay?" He thought for a moment. "And John Constantine. They'll clear everything up and I can figure this out once and for all. And then..." He bit his tongue. "I'll drop it," he lied. "Okay?"
Alfred spoke for the rest of the group, relieved at the possibility of Tim letting the rock go. It made sense, Tim supposed, a lot of magical items make it very difficult for their owner to get rid of or destroy them. "Okay, Master Timothy. We agree to your terms."
-
They agreed to half his terms. He got a meeting with Martian Manhunter and Constantine– who both looked pretty pissed about being randomly called to the Justice League Tower. But as for the rock, Dick held it. Which was fine. Not like Tim cared.
The floor was sleek and well-cleaned, the overhead lights reflecting across the tiles, flushing everyone's faces a bit. It was a pristine building, hanging in space. Its windows hold a dazzling view of the galaxy.
“I already checked the rock, didn’t I?” Constantine asked. “It was rubbish.” A coin danced in his hand as he talked. “Not a magical object at all.”
Martian Manhunter took the rock from Dick and Tim forced himself not to bristle. “Of course, it wasn’t a magical object,” he said. “It’s no object at all. It’s alive.”
"What?" Constantine asked. "So it's sentient?"
"It's an alien species, anything is possible.” Martian Manhunter walked around, thinking as his cape swept behind him. “It seems to be alive the same way a tree or a flower might be alive. Follows instinct. Adapts to the world around it.” He looked to Tim. "What do you know about it?"
"Memories," Tim answered. "I think it does something with memories."
"Oh?" Constantine asked. "That's why you called in the bald, green man?"
The edge of Manhunter's lips twitched, he looked almost entertained by the magician's insult. "Memories... It could use those as a lifeblood, perhaps. Or a defense mechanism... I'll need to do more investigating. But, I can tell you one thing." From the graveness of his face, Tim could already tell he wouldn't like it.
"What?" He pressed. Because he had to know.
"The cracks on the rock..." Manhunter trailed off as drew a finger along one of the fractures, as if he was impressed by its very existence. "The more important something is, the more difficult it is to erase."
Tim looked at the rock, with all the splintering cracks surrounding it. "So you're saying that the cracks are..."
"Marks of resistance. You lost something very important, I believe."
“Or someone,” Constantine said, shrugging. “It could have erased a whole person.”
A whole person. A whole fucking person. Tim turned to his family, as if to say: See? This is something important!
And yet, they still didn't look fully convinced. No, wait, that wasn't it. Their expressions weren't skeptical they were... sad. And Tim's excitement faded when he realized what he was implying.
"We lost someone," Tim said, realizing it out loud. And if the look in Dick's eyes was anything to go by, the man believed him. Because it made sense. Every small thing that felt just a little out of place made sense. Every time something felt incomplete or fractured... "We lost someone," Tim repeated. Because fuck.