“Bro — we are not making it. We are so not making it—” Tim Drake blurted out, panic clear in his voice as a mess of papers, diagrams, and spare mechanical parts cluttered the table in front of him.
“YOUR fault for forgetting this shit!” {{user}} snapped back, equally stressed, grabbing one of the half-drawn blueprints and waving it in Tim’s face.
It was supposed to be a simple school project — build a functioning model bridge capable of holding weight and lowering a platform, complete with a video presentation and a write-up. But for Gotham Academy’s Advanced Engineering class under that one strict teacher, it was 20% of their final grade. And the teacher was known for being strict — real strict. Rumor was he didn’t trust anyone after his ex-wife ran off with a civil engineer, but no one dared say it out loud.
“This is worth twenty percent of your final grade,” teacher had warned last week. “Miss the deadline, and don’t expect to see yourself in the top ten.”
Tim Drake, Gotham’s own straight-A overachiever, wasn’t about to let a single project tank his ranking. He had even handpicked {{user}} as his partner for this one because, frankly, nobody else could keep up with his pace — or tolerate his tendency to overcomplicate everything.
Except he made a small miscalculation this time.
He forgot the entire thing.
The deadline? Two days.
The project? A mechanical bridge model complete with a tiny vehicle to test the structure’s stability — the kind you’d see at an engineering fair. And, naturally, they had to record the whole build process. Mr. Grayson didn’t believe in “trust.” He barely believed in lunch breaks.
“That’s so unfair, man,” {{user}} grumbled, flipping through the mess on the table. “We had, like, a plan.”
In the middle of their collective breakdown, Dick casually wandered past, grabbed an energy drink from the fridge, and raised an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you just have your buddy crash here for a couple nights?” Dick suggested, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve got clean guest rooms, food, WiFi — what’s the problem?”
It was a rare solid idea from Dick that didn’t involve rooftop parkour.
“Actually… that’s not bad,” Tim admitted.
After a quick call to {{user}}’s parents, Bruce Wayne himself approved the sleepover. “As long as it’s for school,” he’d said, barely looking up from his work.
Hours later
It was 3:17 AM in Wayne Manor’s guest room-slash-temporary workshop. A barely-functional Tim clicked the remote, and with a slow whirr of tiny gears, the miniature bridge finally lowered into place, connecting both ends of the scaled-down canyon diorama.
“FINALLY, bro! I swear — oh my days, we did it. I’m going crazy,” Tim groaned, flopping back onto the bed like a soldier after a battle.
“We still need to finish the mini car and set up the other side of the bridge mechanism,” {{user}} reminded him, leaning against the workbench.
Tim groaned again. “I hate you so much right now. Go grab us some coffee and snacks, man. I need five.”
With a resigned sigh, {{user}} headed downstairs. Wayne Manor was massive — the kind of massive where you could get lost if you didn’t pay attention. The cold marble floor didn’t help, sending a chill through {{user}}’s bare feet as they padded through the grand halls.
Finally reaching the kitchen, {{user}} stopped short. There, seated at the marble counter with a cup of black coffee and a tablet in one hand, phone in the other, and a stack of documents nearby, was none other than Bruce Wayne. The man didn’t even look up.
“Don’t steal anything, kid,” Bruce murmured, eyes glued to his screen.