Chapter Text
Janet Desmona Drake had always been a sensible woman—intelligent, immaculate, and entirely without flaw. Or so it seemed. Her childhood had been shaped by image and power; her adulthood, even more so. Perfection wasn’t just a standard she upheld—it was doctrine.
Janet Drake didn’t make mistakes. She calculated risks, defused scandals before they reached the headlines, smuggled artifacts no one would miss, and forged records that funneled money neatly into her own accounts. Even her marriage had been a deliberate transaction: Jack Drake had wealth, pedigree, and a convenient blindness toward anything that mattered. Charming, deferential, and—most importantly—easy to control.
Love never entered the equation. Janet didn’t believe in love. She believed in power.
Her life was a succession of sensible decisions—every one fueled by reason, never emotion—until one catastrophic day in Greece.
As cliche as it sounds, the day had started like any other. With the husband stuck in Austria due to passport issues, the first day of the exhibition was all hers.
And while Janet could speak into a microphone all she wanted about how dearly she missed her poor-poor husband while on solo trips. The truth was this type of travel was her favorite, with nothing but work and her own thoughts to trouble her.
It took a week for Jack to join her in Athens, and Janet could confidently say that week was one she would never forget.
For a week, Athens was hers alone. Greece had always been a place of wonder to her; for all her questionable ethics, Janet truly loved archaeology. The ancient stones, the rich myths—these were the only things that ever stirred something resembling passion in her. And without Jack in tow, she was free to do exactly as she pleased.
It was during this so-called magical week that Janet made the single dumbest decision of her life. Reckless. Senseless. One night of pleasure that would haunt her more than any scandal ever could.
The man lingered in her mind like a scar—effortless charm, quick wit, a magnetism fit for the gods Greece was famous for. She never expected to see him again. The contact card remained in her possession, yes, but she would never be foolish enough to use it.
Once it was over and done with she swore she’d never think of that night again. That, too, turned out to be a mistake—one she would pay for dearly.
And yet, nine months later, lying in a hospital bed with a bundle of pure innocence held against her chest, Janet could not bring herself to care.
Timothy Drake was simultaneously Janet Drake’s biggest mistake and her greatest creation. Holding him felt like holding a stack of gold, unshakable in its worth and unmistakable in its value. But motherhood was a game she couldn’t win. He needed gentleness, affection, love—skills Janet had never mastered.
Her travels soon became less about ambition and more about avoidance. Jack assumed it was career drive, and in part, he was right. But mostly, she was running from the quiet, relentless feeling that she wasn’t enough. Wet nurses signed their NDAs, and Janet never stayed away longer than a month.
Then Timothy’s hair came in—healthy and blond, like his sire. Convincing Jack it was recessive genetics took nearly a week. From there, the signs only multiplied.
Things only continued to snowball from there.
Timothy walked early, spoke early, and developed faster than he should’ve. Objects refused to stay where they were put when he was near, small trinkets and shiny knick-knacks taken out of places he never should have been able to reach, somehow ending up either hidden under his pillow or presented to her as a gift.
And there were other things too. Strange things.
The way locked doors opened without explanation when he so much as laid a finger on them. The way he always seemed aware of where she was in the house. The way snakes and birds always approached him without the expected apprehension. The way his steps never made a sound when they touched the floor.
Jack, bless his simple heart, saw only his precocious child. A future scholar. A little genius.
But Janet knew better. She had always known better.
It didn’t take too long to connect the dots, and suddenly that old contact card found its way out of its place, tucked under a photo in her dresser, and into her hands.
She didn’t hesitate to dial the number, voice flat and sharp as the person on the other side picked up.
The conversation was short.
A few clipped words. A terse agreement. No pleasantries exchanged.
Janet demanded answers, and He was forced to deliver.
She hung up the phone with a certain satisfaction. Her son’s divine heritage may prove troublesome, but there was truly no obstacle that could stop her from providing him with all the tools he needed to thrive.
From that day on, certain steps were taken.
Suddenly, his online tutors were teaching him Greek history alongside Russian.
The old Greek weapons she had acquired over the years somehow found their way out of their decorative cases and into nightstands and behind expensive paintings.
A kid’s mythology book slid between her son’s beginner ABCs.
An additional middle name alongside Jackson and a new accompanying birth certificate.
As all this unfolded, Janet and Jack’s visits home grew shorter and farther apart. They were always around for the holidays and most summers, but anytime else, they were out of reach.
Wet nurses gave way to long-term nannies, and from there, carefully chosen boarding schools.
By the time Timothy turned five, he had bloomed into an intelligent young man, interested in his studies and well-behaved with all figures of authority.
Leading Jack to decide it was finally time to introduce him to the world of the elite.
Not too long after, her son was set to sit still while his hair was dyed a nice shiny black. Crooked grin straightened out to a photogenic smile. Harmonic chuffing and squawking laughter shortened to a professional chuckle.
It almost pained Janet to see her son pushed through the same training she herself had been subjected to—sanded down until he gleamed, stripped of any softness that might be mistaken for weakness.
Almost.
Because guilt, like weakness, was a luxury Janet Drake could not afford.
Timothy adapted quickly, as she knew he would. He learned the rules before they had to be spoken, memorized the choreography of the rich and powerful like it was just another rock on the road to maturity.
By the time the next gala rolled around, Timothy, just like his mother, was perfect. He greeted the right people, lingered near his parents just enough, neither laughed nor ran, ate just the right amount, and spoke in a perfectly measured tone.
He was perfect, and Janet couldn’t be more pleased.
His parents stayed for a month this time before leaving Gotham again, and Tim couldn’t have been happier.
His schooling seemed to take off from there, reading and writing coming to the boy easily once he figured out the basics.
Besides the occasional complaint about him falling asleep in the wrong places, Tim’s school reports were clean of any and all misbehavior. Making his academic records practically spotless of negatives.
Soon enough, he started sending her letters—the shaky handwriting of a child determined to conquer pen and paper through sheer will alone.
Janet read every word.
She marked the progress of his spelling mistakes shrinking away, the slow but relentless sharpening of his phrasing. Every letter was longer than the last, tidier, prettier.
His writings were always about his schooling and progression, as well as his thoughts and monologues about the mundane life he led. Sometimes even mentioning his rather weak connections to his peers and his complaints about the other children he studied with.
Janet’s own letters were always filled with photos and plans, subtle praises and curated mentions of her exploits.
Naturally, there were a few incidents over the years—inevitable curveballs, as life so enjoyed throwing. One such event was the summer of 2000’s circus incident that resulted in her family witnessing the tragic death of the Flying Graysons.
For a few days, Janet had even permitted the boy–Richard to stay in the mansion before Bruce Wayne took him on as a ward. She still wasn’t sure what had compelled her to agree to it—pity, perhaps, or simply a maternal impulse.
Regardless, in hindsight, she was grateful she did, considering the action proved useful once Timothy and Richard struck up something resembling friendship.
After all, it was never too early to start networking when it came to heirs of old wealth.
The friendship was endearing to Janet, and the sight of the two of them sticking together during galas and such helped cement her son’s image as a well-behaved child and future charismatic company leader.
It was around this time that she finally permitted Timothy to possess a telephone, believing he was mature enough to use it wisely.
Another year slipped by far too quickly for her liking, and before she knew it, her boy was six and ready for real school. Not at a boarding school this time, but in Bristol—with a carefully vetted caretaker assigned to handle the daily tasks of drop-offs, pick-ups, meals, and wardrobe of course.
The decision had been Janet’s. She wanted to observe how he might adapt to a less competitive environment, to see whether proximity to other like-minded children his age would help him become more socially adept—or at the very least, more well-liked among his peers.
She had insisted on it, wanting to know how he would adapt to a less competitive environment and if it would help him become more popular among his peers.
Emails from teachers, plus his letters alerted Janet to her experiment's failure, her son was at the top of his class, and at the very bottom of the social ladder.
Apparently, the other children found him too unnerving to make friends with, but really, who needs friends? Janet never had even one good friend, and she turned out just fine.
What Tim really needed was charisma, which was what she was truly trying to build when switching him into a normal first grade class with other elite children. Pity that it didn’t seem to have worked.
Sans that detail, everything seemed well and fine back in Gotham, her son was flourishing, and the dangers of the mythological world were so far away they could’ve been non-existent.
But all that changed with one single phone call.