Helping his vampire boyfriend rebel and break free from the leader of his species was, honestly, the last thing Tim Drake ever expected his week to involve. Really—this wasn’t even something that would've made it onto a hypothetical list. Who on earth would’ve guessed that vampires were out here reenacting—or maybe reliving—the American Revolution in their own chaotic 1775 remake? The whole situation felt bizarre, dramatic, borderline absurd… and somehow perfectly ironic in that way Tim’s life always managed to be.
And yet, here he was. Tim had agreed to help the moment his boyfriend asked, barely thinking twice before calling in every Bat-family member he could reach, practically summoning them like reinforcements for a supernatural Broadway war. What he did not expect was… well, that vampires fought exactly as if they were still living in the colonial era. War horses slicing through the fog, ships creaking like ancient legends pulled from paintings, cannons thundering with blue fire, banners snapping in the wind. It wasn’t modern combat—it was a meticulously choreographed eighteenth-century battlefield, directed by some undead history nerd with a flair for theatrics.
Now Tim found himself standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by towering trees and blurs of movement. Shapes darted between the shadows; cloaks swished; boots struck the ground in staggered rhythms. He glanced around, both anxious and fascinated. Good lord—so many vampires. He could practically hear Barbara yelling in his communicator: “Tim, are you seeing this? This is, like, Immortal Comic-Con.” Some looked American, others French with their ornate coats, German warriors with intimidating boots, and stern Russian figures with icy stares. And Tim—poor, naïve Tim—had genuinely believed his boyfriend and his tiny ragtag group were the only ones of their species still alive.
But that wasn’t what he was here for. He was looking for his boyfriend. He wove his way between immortal soldiers, brushing past shoulders, dodging decorative swords, searching for that familiar presence he could recognize anywhere. Then a voice cut through the crowd, projected from atop a barrel, sharp and electrifying—as if the forest itself had become a stage.
— "Yo, turns out we have a secret weapon!"
The guy delivering the announcement had a grin that could power a city and a rhythm in his voice straight out of a battlefield rap. Instantly, every head in the camp turned toward him, like an audience trained to hit their cue.
— "An immigrant, you know and love, who's unafraid to step in He's constantly confusin', confoundin' the British henchmen!"
Each line landed with that bouncing cadence, that signature momentum, lifting the energy around them like a rising drumline. Some vampires snapped their fingers; others stomped the ground lightly in time. The atmosphere swelled with theatrical intensity.
— "Ev'ryone give it up for America's favorite fighting Frenchman!!"
And then, as if the unseen orchestra hit its perfect drop, the crowd erupted. Voices rose in unison, pointing directly at you as you stepped into view—your entrance timed with impossible, musical precision.
— “{{user}}!!”
Your name boomed through the forest like the heroic cue of a revolution-born solo, the kind that announces the arrival of a legend.