Chapter Text
[Aberratio, from Latin: "deviation," "distraction." It means a departure from the norm, whether in thoughts, behavior, or physical or scientific aspects.
Or, in the words of the author of this fanfic, something that sounds like a ritual—and a sin.]
Tim Drake did not believe in destiny.
He believed in logical consequences, in the orderly chaos of the universe, in invisible patterns that revealed themselves only to those who knew where to look. Destiny? No. Destiny was a comfort for minds that couldn't calculate probabilities.
A deception for those who needed to soothe themselves by justifying the consequences of their actions.
So when he saw—out of the corner of his eye, among the crowd in the café—two children entering, he didn’t think it was anything special. His mind immediately registered it as an anomalous variable.
A minor anomaly, of course. Gotham was full of things that didn’t quite fit. People who talked to themselves, street kids with eyes that weighed like those of adults, ghosts with flesh and names like Jason—and others (because Jason was certainly not the only one who was supposed to be dead in Gotham). But those two... they were different.
And “different” was never a good thing in Gotham, so he watched them.
One was a little girl, around six or seven years old, with bright red hair—almost artificial—with black highlights at the tips, a red headband with soft, playful antennae, and a pink dress resembling some kind of bug. Red mites? Boxelder bugs? Ladybug? Yes, a ladybug, judging by the spots on the dress.
The other was a boy, apparently fourteen or fifteen, tall for his age, with ink-black hair, black sunglasses, and a crooked smile that promised mischief and disaster in equal measure.
They were children. They shouldn’t have stood out, but their mere presence and clothing made them stand out more than anything. And yet, the entire café seemed to ignore them. That, more than anything else, made Tim narrow his eyes.
Who were they? His mind was already operating, the puzzle assembling itself on instinct. Tourists? Possible. But at that time of year? Unlikely, though not impossible.
Their clothes were designer too. Rich kids, most likely. Which made it more probable they were on vacation.
Tim kept watching. The children entered without ordering anything. They sat together right in front of his table, allowing him to observe them more clearly without revealing himself.
The girl folded her hands on her lap, her posture far too straight for her age, looking around with curiosity before turning to the boy.
“We shouldn’t be here, Plagg,” the girl insisted.
Plagg? That was an odd name. And an even weirder nickname.
“Marinette will be mad.”
The boy crossed his arms and huffed, glaring out the window with irritation. “So what? It’s her fault for leaving, sugar cube. I told her I was hungry!”
“Plagg!” the girl exclaimed. “You know she’s busy. We shouldn’t bother her.” She scolded him. “It’s not like you’re going to starve to death.”
“I feel like I could starve to death,” Plagg dramatized.
Okay, so the kids weren’t siblings. Not quite. Their gestures didn’t match, their rhythms were opposites. They didn’t look alike. But they were perfectly synchronized. Like opposites who understood each other without speaking. And somehow, even calling them adopted siblings didn’t feel right either.
The children had no backpacks. No devices. No symbols. No trace of identification. Nothing.
Too perfect. Too clean for Gotham.
And yet... no one seemed to see them.
Tim forced himself to look around. A woman walked right past the children’s table without so much as a glance. The barista ignored their presence. A normal kid tripped nearby, looked directly at them... and his gaze passed over them as if they weren’t there.
It wasn’t invisibility. It wasn’t tech camouflage. It was something subtler.
It was as if the world refused to notice them.
But Tim couldn’t stop noticing them.
He rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers in front of his mouth, watching. Analyzing. Thinking.
What was this? Shared psychological projection? Some kind of mental camouflage? Metahumans? High-level illusionism? Magic?
Nothing fit. Nothing made sense. And that, to him, was unbearable.
For an instant, the girl's eyes—an intense, bright blue—moved. They locked with his. And Tim felt a sharp pang in his chest. Something like... recognition.
The girl blinked, freezing. Tim pretended not to see her. She seemed relieved.
“Alright!” Plagg said, snapping his fingers. “I’m going to order.”
Tim frowned slightly when he noticed a waitress finally seemed to notice the children.
“I want cheesecake!” the boy—Plagg—demanded. More people seemed to notice them.
Tim pulled out his notebook and wrote:
[Two anomalous subjects. Unidentified.
Subject A: female, ~6 years old.
Subject B (Plagg?): adolescent, ~14–15 years.
Unregistered.
Not acknowledged by immediate environment. Synchronized movement. Possible telepathic or pre-verbal bond. Unexplainable. Highly improbable. Magical? Metahumans?
Probable cause: unknown.
Threat level: unknown.
Curiosity level: unacceptably high.
Investigate.]
He closed the notebook. Stayed still.
Took a deep breath.
No. Tim Drake didn’t believe in destiny.
But something—something deep within his trained instinct—whispered that he had just stumbled upon the beginning of a pattern with no name.
And he wasn’t going to let it go.
So he kept watching.
The girl left after ordering her own chocolate cake.
Tim followed her with his eyes until she vanished into the crowd—in that improbable way things that shouldn't exist do: fading into the everyday without leaving a trace.
He didn’t get up. Not yet. Something held him back. A barely perceptible noise in the gears of his instinct. As if the pattern wasn’t finished. As if the equation was incomplete.
And then, exactly three minutes later—the girl returned.
With company.
She walked in as if she’d never left. Her stride was still calm, but this time there was something else… something more animated in her steps. Almost happy. Her red dress swayed with a light, childlike bounce that felt rehearsed. As if she were trying to imitate what the world considered adorable. Tim noticed, of course.
But that wasn’t what caught his attention.
It was her.
The girl who entered holding the child’s hand.
The anomaly within the anomaly.
He saw her before she fully crossed the threshold.
And for a moment—for the first time in a long while—Tim didn’t know what to do with the information he was receiving.
She was young. No older than twenty—though she looked even younger. Nineteen. Eighteen, maybe, if one didn’t look too closely. But Tim did look closely. And on closer inspection... there was something about her that didn’t match the apparent innocence of her face. Something tired in her eyes, like she had already lived a full life.
There was something in the way she looked, in the precision of her movements, in the silent gravity of her figure that violently contradicted her youth.
And that contrast confused him.
Unnerved him.
She was beautiful, yes. But not like the women Gotham was used to. Not provocative. Not calculatedly attractive. Her clothing didn’t seek attention. She dressed like an art student or a designer-in-training who didn’t need to shout her talent—because it lived in every thread: high-waisted jeans hugging her slim figure, a short midnight-blue coat with large buttons, and a white blouse with barely visible floral embroidery at the collar.
Her red, hand-knitted scarf had a loose thread near the edge, which she hid with a habitual thumb flick. Low boots. A black beret tilted to the left.
She looked like she had stepped out of a French film… if that film had been shot in the middle of a war.
And yet, nothing about her seemed out of place. She wasn’t dressed up. She was simply like that, and the world around her had to adapt. Nothing about her appearance should have been eye-catching… and yet it was. As if the world subtly molded itself not to outshine her.
Her hand held the girl’s with instinctive softness. She didn’t dominate. Didn’t drag. Didn’t lead. She accompanied.
And despite everything, something about her was deeply anomalous.
Tim narrowed his eyes.
Fluid movement. Calm breathing. Pulse—visibly—stable. No visible weapons. No devices. Skin unscarred, from what could be seen. But her feet touched the ground like someone who knew exactly how much weight to carry without being heard. Like someone trained. Like someone who tried to seem untrained.
She was good. Very good.
And that, more than anything else, made his pulse quicken. Fear? Adrenaline? Excitement? He wasn’t sure—had no time to analyze himself either.
He saw her scan the room, as if counting exits without looking paranoid. The way she kept her body slightly turned toward the child, protective. The way, when their eyes met, she didn’t immediately look away.
No. She saw him.
And she noted him.
And she weighed him.
Just a second. Less.
But it was enough.
Tim forced himself not to move. Not to blink.
Instinct screamed in his ribs.
The pattern had shifted.
The anomaly had branched out.
A variable within a variable.
The girl smiled. Not at him, of course. At the child. She leaned down slightly, just enough to whisper something in her ear—just enough to make the child giggle and wrap her arms around her waist like she had been waiting for her all day.
It was a warm scene. Familiar. Harmless. Almost. And yet...
Tim felt it.
That uncomfortable tug in his chest.
As if something inside him had been knocked loose. As if that impossible equation had just revealed a new unknown. One without a name. One that shouldn’t hurt. And it did—but not in a bad way. And somehow that made it worse.
But he knew what he felt was curiosity. That was all.
A natural intrigue toward a new pattern. A strange figure that didn’t belong in the environment, and therefore had to be understood, cataloged, broken down. Nothing more.
It was fascination.
It wasn’t attraction.
It wasn’t destiny.
He repeated that to himself as he pulled out his notebook again.
And wrote:
[Third anomalous subject.
Female. French, judging by accent. Possible Asian descent. Approximately 20 years old. Appears younger than expected. Deliberately innocent style.
Controlled movements. Possible training in evasion or discreet combat.
Strong bond with Subject A (girl) and B (boy). Protective behavior.
Anomaly level: high.
Mutual recognition with Anomalies A and B.
Sustained eye contact.
Primary variable.
Danger: uncertain.
Curiosity:
undoubtedlyunacceptably high.Investigate thoroughly.]
He closed the notebook.
Looked again.
The girl was already seated. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second—he looked away casually as if he hadn’t been watching.
Tim tried not to stare. But failed.
Everything about her challenged him. From the way she didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard, to how she seemed to read the child with just her eyes—as if they didn’t need full words. As if they were already made of shared language.
And yet that wasn’t what unsettled him.
It was that he couldn’t figure her out.
Every person Tim saw went through the same filter: posture, tone, movements, gaze, details. Each one produced a reading, a sketch, a profile.
But with her, it was like reading a page that rewrote itself every second.
One moment, she was an ordinary girl. The next, a well-trained shadow. Then, a caretaker. Then, a strategist.
Impossible.
Tim blinked. Leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, staring at her reflection in the glass. Watching without watching.
His mind buzzed.
Who was she? What was she doing there? What kind of person is followed by two impossible beings? And why did he feel so curious about her?
He watched the girl’s reflection. She cut the cake for the child with patient care.
And smiled.
Tim didn’t believe in love at first sight. That was nonsense—an illusion based on idealizing the person. But he did believe in omens.
And that girl was the beginning of a very dangerous one.
So he would pay attention.
He would pay very close attention.