We're Live ( CUT SCENE ) [It's 9-something PM, December 16th. ADI's I.T. Department is scrambling and maybe it's not fair that the glory
(what the hell is he thinking about, the "glory")
of being the first to track down Ren's location is one of the last guys to have hobbled in through the doors. There's a cast on a hand for broken fingers, fading but not faded bruising on his idiot jaw, and if Tim's trying to not draw attention to an odd hiss of pain here and there with every other step, that's nobody's business.
The fact that he declares,] I've found them! It's me-- it was me. [does, however, get him quick attention. Head of Security, especially, isn't looking all that happy as he's stalking over to check things out. Tim's only half... aware.
The computers don't stop talking. He can't listen if the computers don't stop talking.]
In the Hive (cw insects/swarms, bites, altered mental states/toxic relationship dynamics, body horror, definitely death) ( CLOSED: Stephen Strange ) [Neil Grace is a big guy, strong guy, protective and fair, meticulous in his work. He's currently about this |--| close to tearing Tim Drake a new one, via reaching into his throat and pulling all the vile shit out of the kid. And Tim Drake, ADI's moron of the year, can focus on maybe half of the searing tongue-lashing before the location is confirmed and things need to mobilize. The good news (there's "good" news?) is that he can stand soldier-still and still communicate.
The computers talk to him, he talks to the computers. It's a thing.
It's a thing that lets him (forces him) to write to Strange: text message, email, some webcam that can pick up the man's position in or out of Medical in ADI's HQ can talk to the monitor closest to tell the man to get here now. There are lives at stake.
Understandably, Tim can't just-- move. Without permission. Supervision. At the moment. He's taken to pacing, mouth moving with silence surrounding him amidst the chaos of the first rescue team getting herded into vans. Vans. Like they couldn't move faster with... Strange. Strange, who is here now. Who Tim can't remember having arrived to the scene, but that's fine, this isn't about him. This isn't about him.] I know where they're going. [The team, ADI--] We can get there faster if... [Even with hurried, half mumbled words, surely the doctor can figure out what Tim means, yeah?]
( Request: 1 thread only, please! cw spidersss, body horror, death, violence ) There's spiders, mostly. Tim's not sure if that's also his fault or just the way that these things happen. The room in the warehouse had had its door basically glued shut with spider webs and even the night-vision goggles had a hard time seeing through the silk glue decorating every open space.
He kind of wants to cry, but of course he doesn't. Is this the Council's fault, somehow? Did they find him here, too? That's where everything began, if he stops to think-- but he doesn't. He doesn't stop, that is. There's no time, which seems to be a nauseatingly common theme with Tim Drake: there's no time. There's too much to do. There's a body that's got its skin bubbling from the inside, small moving bumps of creepy-crawlies burrowing and feasting and Tim kind of wants to cry because he's sure this is all his fault. But there's no time for that. Someone has been shoved at him, someone that he can see is an other-worlder like him. He can feel the slow, torturous crawl of something on the cast of his hand but Tim's snarling at his company anyway. "Don't move," he warns, even as the person at his partner's feet is reaching and begging for help. A spider eats at their eye, open in desperate terror.
Lights Out ( OTA: the wildcard option ) He's not stepping out unless ADI itself pushes him to another partner, another small-stakes mission in what Tim can only assume is the punishment of further running him ragged. Hilariously ("hilariously"?) there's no ankle monitor on him. Tim thinks it was also a dumb idea to have not injected a tracking chip in his skull or whatever during the decontamination and quarantine process, where he was rightfully (again, and again, and again) lambasted for the harebrained scheme that had gotten innocents tortured and killed. But that's not his call to make, he guesses.
The days surrounding the warehouse incident, he's well subdued. The perfect picture of a dumb kid, storm cloud over his head and all.
One day, he hangs around Counseling.
Another, he's-- around. He's just around, okay? Because there's work to be done and it's not the first time Tim Drake has been subjected to the lesson: there is always work to be done.
He can do that.
He can work.
So he does.
[ooc; Your wildcard! feel free to ping me fourboars on plurk, PM, or discord if you want something in particular! who wants jimothy to confess stupid shit. you know you do. you also know you want to bully him. do it. do it.]
Tim Drake | ota + specific prompts
[It's 9-something PM, December 16th. ADI's I.T. Department is scrambling and maybe it's not fair that the glory
(what the hell is he thinking about, the "glory")
of being the first to track down Ren's location is one of the last guys to have hobbled in through the doors. There's a cast on a hand for broken fingers, fading but not faded bruising on his idiot jaw, and if Tim's trying to not draw attention to an odd hiss of pain here and there with every other step, that's nobody's business.
The fact that he declares,] I've found them! It's me-- it was me. [does, however, get him quick attention. Head of Security, especially, isn't looking all that happy as he's stalking over to check things out. Tim's only half... aware.
The computers don't stop talking. He can't listen if the computers don't stop talking.]
In the Hive (cw insects/swarms, bites, altered mental states/toxic relationship dynamics, body horror, definitely death)
( CLOSED: Stephen Strange )
[Neil Grace is a big guy, strong guy, protective and fair, meticulous in his work. He's currently about this |--| close to tearing Tim Drake a new one, via reaching into his throat and pulling all the vile shit out of the kid. And Tim Drake, ADI's moron of the year, can focus on maybe half of the searing tongue-lashing before the location is confirmed and things need to mobilize. The good news (there's "good" news?) is that he can stand soldier-still and still communicate.
The computers talk to him, he talks to the computers. It's a thing.
It's a thing that lets him (forces him) to write to Strange: text message, email, some webcam that can pick up the man's position in or out of Medical in ADI's HQ can talk to the monitor closest to tell the man to get here now. There are lives at stake.
Understandably, Tim can't just-- move. Without permission. Supervision. At the moment. He's taken to pacing, mouth moving with silence surrounding him amidst the chaos of the first rescue team getting herded into vans. Vans. Like they couldn't move faster with... Strange. Strange, who is here now. Who Tim can't remember having arrived to the scene, but that's fine, this isn't about him. This isn't about him.] I know where they're going. [The team, ADI--] We can get there faster if... [Even with hurried, half mumbled words, surely the doctor can figure out what Tim means, yeah?]
( Request: 1 thread only, please! cw spidersss, body horror, death, violence )
There's spiders, mostly. Tim's not sure if that's also his fault or just the way that these things happen. The room in the warehouse had had its door basically glued shut with spider webs and even the night-vision goggles had a hard time seeing through the silk glue decorating every open space.
He kind of wants to cry, but of course he doesn't. Is this the Council's fault, somehow? Did they find him here, too? That's where everything began, if he stops to think-- but he doesn't. He doesn't stop, that is. There's no time, which seems to be a nauseatingly common theme with Tim Drake: there's no time. There's too much to do. There's a body that's got its skin bubbling from the inside, small moving bumps of creepy-crawlies burrowing and feasting and Tim kind of wants to cry because he's sure this is all his fault. But there's no time for that. Someone has been shoved at him, someone that he can see is an other-worlder like him. He can feel the slow, torturous crawl of something on the cast of his hand but Tim's snarling at his company anyway. "Don't move," he warns, even as the person at his partner's feet is reaching and begging for help. A spider eats at their eye, open in desperate terror.
Lights Out
( OTA: the wildcard option )
He's not stepping out unless ADI itself pushes him to another partner, another small-stakes mission in what Tim can only assume is the punishment of further running him ragged. Hilariously ("hilariously"?) there's no ankle monitor on him. Tim thinks it was also a dumb idea to have not injected a tracking chip in his skull or whatever during the decontamination and quarantine process, where he was rightfully (again, and again, and again) lambasted for the harebrained scheme that had gotten innocents tortured and killed. But that's not his call to make, he guesses.
The days surrounding the warehouse incident, he's well subdued. The perfect picture of a dumb kid, storm cloud over his head and all.
One day, he hangs around Counseling.
Another, he's-- around. He's just around, okay? Because there's work to be done and it's not the first time Tim Drake has been subjected to the lesson: there is always work to be done.
He can do that.
He can work.
So he does.
[ooc; Your wildcard! feel free to ping me