multiversallogs | (no subject)

Who: Tim Drake-Wayne (in clever disguise) and Bruce Wayne (doesn't need a disguise)
What: Terrible ideas in undercover investigation go terribly.
Where: The Vault
When: A couple of days throughout the week that make sense!
Warnings: TBE STILL; mention of sexual activities and death; drugging, bondage, and assault.

It sucks to be stuck in a world completely separate and disparate from his own. Even with Conner there as a friend and support, Tim still hates being dragged away from home, and his family and other friends. He can deal with it, of course, he isn't about to let a little case of multidimensional kidnapping stymie him or stop him doing what he's always done, he just doesn't have to like it. So when he's not working (very slowly) on the possibilities for getting out of here, or looking into the job and housing market to prepare for the exit strategy to be a very long one, or keeping Conner company so neither of them get too bummed out or screwed up by this place - in between all of that, he's been doing his best to investigate the criminal state of Baedal. Carefully, he doesn't want to draw attention to himself - not from the criminal element or the militia, not just yet. So it's mostly been plain-clothes snooping, listening for rumours, talking to the right people or simply engaging the long process of finding out who the right people to talk to are. Some parts of the city remind him of Gotham, especially the underbelly, but the people are different, and he needs to build contacts, form a network, before he can really get anywhere.

Not that that stops crime from happening, still, and not that he's going to wait until he's in a completely secure position to start combating it.

One of the places he's heard rumours about is the Vault. A relatively new adult club offering entertainment from the sensual to the... less than reputable, from all accounts. It seems like a good place to start - it's new and popular enough to be attracting some of the larger names or their scouts, he's sure, and clubs like that are often a hotbed of illegal activity he should be keeping an eye on and working to shut down even if he magically doesn't manage to pin down any druglords or gang leaders.

He doesn't have much spending money just yet, so he has to work his disguise to a budget - nothing elaborate, jsut simple and effective. So the first time he shows up at the Vault, he has cheap but effective wash-in wash-out red dye in his hair, spiked into a different style, and simple black clothes on - trousers with a few decorative straps, leather boots, and a mesh shirt with leather straps that draw attention to certain areas but do nothing to hide the various scars he carries. He couldn't really afford enough make up to cover all of them effectively, even just his arms, and the kind of people he's looking to draw in most likely won't mind, so instead he's making a point of showing them off. That first time, he doesn't get in too deep, just hears some meaty rumours and buys or is bought a few drinks that he doesn't drink most of, and is left feeling that there's more to this place he needs to uncover.

It's the second time he shows up, with a reasonable gap not to seem over-eager but not so long he's unfamiliar, that he gets in a little deeper. He takes in a stage show and catches wind that he should really check out the more private offerings, and that's promising. He notices one or two familiar faces, some he's talked to and others he'd only seen before they vanished silently, while mingling in the main room - he recognises one of the men who seems to be a reoccurring but silent presence as someone he's gathered from eavesdropping is called Tom, but again, he isn't approached, and he carefully picks a moment when Tom isn't in sight to slip towards the more private, quieter areas of the club, just in case he's internal security of some kind.

His first stop is the bathroom - easy to explain, easy to eavesdrop, and often a first pick for an out of the way meeting place to conduct illicit transactions. And just as popular for consuming drugs, too, so he's hardly surprised to encounter a small huddle of junkies of some kind - it's in their body language and the suspicious looks they throw at him as he seemingly obliviously, seemingly drunkly sways his way into a stall. And then they apparently forget he's there, speaking in loud whispers to each other. Mostly nothing, but maybe he can overhear something useful about their suppliers, or names of drugs to look into.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It seems Tim's grown past whatever puppy-dog-eyes impulses he had when Bruce had interacted with him before - if this is even the same boy - and it's heartening. Not only does he seem stronger, the flippant attitude he takes concerning vigilantism grates on Bruce's nerves like nothing else, and it makes it that much easier to detach from him inside. He loses his appetite entirely, and whether or not Tim catches it, a nearly-imperceptible shift somewhere inside of him takes place, going from necessary distance to genuine distaste.

(There are, whether or not it's worth noting, absolutely no signs of even subconscious recognition at the name 'Superman'.)

"I told you already."

None of you exist in my world.

None of you.

Bruce drains the rest of his water, stands, crumples the wrapper in his hands before tossing it nearly absently into the bin. He shrugs his jacket on, and pulls out one of the kitchen drawers, removing a thin file folder held together with a bit of elastic from underneath a beaten up utensil tray. He sets it on the counter next to Tim's elbow. Job listings - technical work, some lobbyist interning, miscellaneous academia, with notes about who is and isn't worth calling.

And that's apparently all he has to say, because after he passes that off, Bruce turns away and heads right out the door without another word.

"Bru-...ce." Tim does that slightly embarrassing thing of standing up and starting to call after Bruce as he's leaving, only to trail off and sit back down with a resigned sigh. If Bruce Wayne has decided the conversation is at an end, then it just is, and he doesn't know this Bruce - or this Bruce doesn't know him well enough to endure being chased after with anything like good humour. And that's the crux of the problem he's having here, that part of what he's used to in conversations with Bruce is a certain level of camaraderie (who would use that word and apply it to Batman, Tim) and dry, understated humour, at least outside of talking about actual crime. He had been trying to ease the conversation and make a connection that's just not there, and possibly never will be; if this Bruce doesn't know any of them, doesn't know Clark or any other heroes, then he hasn't had their influence to soften the abrasive edges of his view on superheroism and vigilantism, and... well, he's seen what can happen when Bruce has no-one around to lighten his focus. He feels like a teenager again, young and uncertain of how to approach Bruce, but growing absolutely certain that he has to, somehow.

He takes his time finishing the burrito and picking through the job listings, noting some of particular interest to look into and grateful for the thought, before checking over the rest of the apartment and snagging a jacket with a high collar. Between that and cleaning his hair, he looks much different, and it covers the stitches and bruising on his neck better than the mesh shirt, so when he leaves it shouldn't arouse any undue interest from anyone, hopefully.

He considers the availability of electronic equipment in Baedal, then the chances that Bruce would take him to a place he hadn't bugged in some fashion.

"Thanks for the job listings. I'm borrowing a jacket. If you want it back, or decide we need to talk, you know where to find me."

If he's wrong, he just talked to himself in an empty apartment, with no-one around to be embarrassed in front of. Message potentially left, he heads out, slipping into the alleyways and from there into the streets.

Edited 2012-01-06 21:59 (UTC)