Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain-slicked rooftops of Gotham reflected the city's relentless chaos, but inside the dimly lit warehouse, the tension was stifling. Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood motionless, his gaze locked on the figures before him. Talia al Ghul, poised and regal, exuded her usual air of superiority. But it wasn’t her presence that made his stomach twist.

It was the boy.

He stood by her side, silently, clad in black armor, a hood pulled over his head, and a metallic mask, partially obscuring his face. It was sleek and unadorned, with a filter in the center and slits, the ends adorned with mechanical mechanisms. 

Despite the armor, Bruce could still see the boy’s youth, his rounded face and emotionless green eyes, that seemed to size Bruce up and down as if he was dissecting him; his flaws, his weak points. His green eyes seemed to pierce Bruce with a surprising intensity, but lacked all the warmth a child of his age should have.

Talia raised her hand to his shoulders, her smile manic. “Meet your son,” her voice dripping with pride, the same way that Tim would talk about an invention of his, “Damian.” 

Bruce’s stomach tied itself in knots, the whites of his domino masks turning to slits. Bruce almost wanted to reach forward to touch the boy to see if he was real; the only indicator would be the minute rise and fall of his small chest and the twin-daggers of his emerald eyes. 

This was no child. This was a weapon. Perfectly sharpened.

“He is everything the League has ever hoped to create. He will listen to any command without hesitation. There is no threat he cannot kill, no task he will fail." Her eyes flicked to Bruce, the malice there unmistakable. "And if he does, well... there are contingencies in place. He is…the perfect soldier.”

 Bruce fought back a roll of nausea. “Why…why did you bring him here?” His voice came out hoarse, dangerous. 

Talia hummed, walking around Damian, her eyes flashing. “He may be a soldier, but he lacks…certain qualities. I believe you can help him. Discipline him. Mold him.” Talia sighed, running her hands over his shoulders.

“He’s a child–” Bruce started, his voice growing as he shifted forward.

“Meant for greatness,” Talia finished. “Speak, Damian.”

For the first time since Bruce’s eyes lay on the boy, he turned his face up, those eyes staring directly into Bruce’s. “Damian Al Ghul, at your service.” His voice cracked from misuse, yet Bruce couldn’t shake the memories of Tim, Jason, Dick; his boys who grew up too fast.

“There you have it, beloved,” she said. “Your son, in all his glory. Do try not to break him.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her cloak swishing behind her as she disappeared into the shadows of the cave, leaving Bruce and Damian alone.

Bruce took a tentative step forward, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Damian,” he said again, his voice softer now, laced with something he rarely allowed himself to feel: vulnerability. “You’re more than this. You’re not a weapon. You’re my son.”

But Damian didn’t respond. He stood rigid, his posture perfect, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze didn’t falter, but there was something faint—something almost imperceptible—in the way his shoulders twitched. A crack in the armor. A hint of the child buried beneath layers of conditioning.

Bruce knew then that this wouldn’t be easy. Damian had been shaped by the League of Assassins, by Talia’s ruthless methods, by years of pain and discipline. But he was here now, in the Batcave, under Bruce’s protection.

And no matter how long it took, Bruce vowed he would save him.

The tension had begun long before they gathered in the Batcave. It started when Bruce returned from a meeting with Talia. His face was pale, his jaw set in a grim line that betrayed the storm brewing beneath his surface. The Batfamily had seen Bruce shaken before, but this time, it was different.

Bruce summoned them without much explanation, simply telling them to meet in the cave. Jason had scoffed, muttering something about more cryptic Bat-family drama, but even he couldn’t ignore the weight in Bruce’s voice.

When they arrived, the atmosphere was thick enough to choke on. Bruce stood near the Batcomputer, his back turned to them, his shoulders hunched slightly as he stared at the display. Tim was the first to break the silence.

"What's going on, Bruce?" Tim asked, his tone cautious.

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he straightened, inhaling deeply before turning to face them. His expression was hard to read, a mix of guilt, anger, and something they rarely saw—fear.

“There’s someone you need to meet,” he said at last, his voice carefully measured.

Jason raised an eyebrow, leaning against the nearest console. “Great. Another Gotham orphan? Or is this one of your secret projects finally coming back to bite us?”

“Jason,” Dick warned, shooting him a look.

But Bruce shook his head. “This is different,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This... this is my son, Damian."

The room went still, and for a moment, no one spoke.

“Your what ?” Jason was the first to break the silence, his voice incredulous.

Tim looked equally stunned, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the revelation. Dick’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, waiting for Bruce to explain.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Finally, he just motioned toward the shadows at the far end of the cave.

A figure stepped forward, his movements precise and deliberate. The boy was small, no more than ten or eleven, but the air around him crackled with quiet intensity. He wore armor that looked too heavy for his frame, his hood casting a shadow over his face.

“This is Damian,” Bruce said, his voice heavy with something unspoken. 

Jason’s sharp laugh broke the silence. “You mean to tell me there’s some pint-sized assassin out there who—”

“Quiet.” Bruce’s tone was sharp, cutting Jason off mid-sentence.

The boy stepped fully into the light, lowering his hood to reveal a face that was both youthful and unnervingly hardened. His green eyes flicked to each of them, studying, analyzing, calculating.

Dick took a tentative step forward, his voice soft. “Hi, Damian. I’m Dick. Your... brother, I guess.” He offered a small smile.

Damian didn’t respond, his expression unchanging.

Jason snorted, crossing his arms. “Great. He’s a charmer.”

Bruce’s hand twitched at his side, but he didn’t react to Jason’s comment. Instead, he focused on Damian, his face unreadable.

“He hasn’t been raised like other children,” Bruce said finally, his voice low. “He’s... he’s been trained.”

“Trained?” Tim repeated, his tone skeptical.

“To kill,” Bruce admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "He grew up in the League of Assassins, and he's come to... stay with us. For the time-being. His mother... Talia, dropped him off. For..training.

The Batcave was heavy with silence, the suffocating kind that rendered the family silent. Bruce stood in the center of the room, flanked by the others, Dick, Tim, and Jason, each of them radiating their brand of unease as they stared at the boy before them.

Damian.

He stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his hood down to reveal his sharp, youthful features. His eyes were as calculating as ever, but his silence unnerved them the most. He hadn’t spoken a word since arriving, not when Bruce introduced him, not when Jason’s sharp remarks cut through the air, not even when Dick’s voice softened, trying to coax something human out of him.

Bruce swallowed hard, his hand twitching at his side. He stepped forward, his usually steady voice wavering just enough to betray the crack in his composure.

“Damian,” he said, his tone low, but commanding. “Speak.”

The boy’s gaze flicked up to meet Bruce’s, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then, finally, he moved, his lips parting as he spoke.

“The Demon’s Tail,” Damian said, his voice fractured and dull, devoid of warmth or inflection. “At your service.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Bruce flinched, though only those closest to him might have noticed. The title was deliberate, a knife sharpened by Talia’s hand, and this cut deeper than anything else Damian could have said.

“ The Demons’s Tail?  Bruce, what the fuck?” Jason shouted, turning to Bruce in a flash, his eye’s flaring to life. The sarcasm in his voice quickly vanished, easily replaced by rage. His voice cut through the silence, and Bruce flinched. 

“You said he was raised in the League, but he's… different,” Tim said quietly as Jason thundered about. Dick remained silent, observing Damian with his eyebrows pinched together and worry seeming to seep out of every pore. 

"Did you fucking know abut him? What are you going to do, strap a 'Robin' costume on him and consider it therapy?" Jason scowled, his eyes dark.

“Jason, enough. This isn’t Bruce’s fault,” Dick interjected with a shout, stepping in between the two men. Jason scoffed, pushing against Dick with a growl. 

“Always the fuckin’ kid soldiers with you, huh? What, 3 wasn’t enough? You decide to fix everything with a little kid who obeys your every order?” Jason’s whole body tense like a bow, his hands clenched into fists.

“He listens to your every command.” Tim said, his voice sounding like he just swallowed some very bitter medicine. Bruce nodded with a huff, turning to look away from the boy. Jason blinked, before grunting, stomping away from the cave.

No one moved to follow him.

Bruce turned to Tim, looking decades older as he pulled off his mask. “He has a…directive. You give him a command, he just…follows it.”

“Follows it?” Dick turned to look at the boy again, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed. He didn’t want to talk about Damian like he wasn’t here, but his eyes remained unfocused, as he stood in that same position. When he was Damian’s age, he still slept with a stuffed elephant and hid under the covers in the scary scenes of most horror movies. But Damian remained stagnant as a statue, his stance ready to spring into action. 

“Let’s get you out of those clothes, okay?” Dick kneeled in front of Damian, his hand resting softly on his shoulder. But Damian silently looked to Bruce, as if asking for permission. Dick shut his eyes and calmly recollected himself, feeling anger bubble over. 

“Y-Yes. Follow Dick, okay? Remember, you can speak whenever you want. And you can listen to your brothers, not just me.”

Without another word, Damian robotically followed Dick to the locker rooms. Distantly, he could hear a discussion, but he waved it to the back of his mind. 

Dick led the way, glancing back occasionally to make sure Damian was still following. The boy’s movements were unsettling in their precision—each step silent, like he was used to not making a sound. Dick tried to ignore the lump in his throat as they entered the locker room, the faint hum of the Batcave machinery fading into the background.

“Alright,” Dick said, his voice soft but steady. “Let’s get you something more comfortable.”

He moved to the nearest locker, rummaging through spare uniforms and casual clothes they kept on hand for emergencies. The silence between them grew heavier, but Dick resisted the urge to fill it with meaningless chatter. Instead, he turned back to Damian, holding up a simple black hoodie and sweatpants.

“These should fit,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Why don’t you go ahead and change?”

Damian didn’t move. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked to the clothes in Dick’s hands and then back to his face.

“You can change here,” Dick assured him, taking a step back to give the boy some space. “It’s just us.”

Still, Damian hesitated. He glanced toward the door, as if expecting Bruce to appear and issue an order. When nothing happened, his fingers twitched at his sides, his only visible sign of unease.

“Hey,” Dick said gently, crouching slightly to meet Damian’s gaze. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

For a moment, Damian’s expression faltered. It was so brief that Dick almost believed he had imagined it—a flicker of something vulnerable, something achingly human beneath the rigid exterior. But then it was gone, replaced by the cold mask Damian wore like armor.

Slowly, Damian reached out and took the clothes from Dick’s hands. He turned away, his movements stiff and deliberate, and began to remove his outer layers.

Dick waited, trying not to let his concern show on his face. He busied himself with tidying up the room, giving Damian the illusion of privacy while staying close enough to intervene if needed.

When Damian finished changing, he stood there in the oversized hoodie and sweatpants, the fabric hanging loosely on his small frame. The sight tugged at Dick’s heart—he looked less like an assassin and more like a kid for the first time. But the tension in Damian’s posture remained, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“You look good,” Dick said, offering a small smile. “Much better than that League of Assassins getup.”

Damian didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on a point just over Dick’s shoulder.

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Listen, Damian, I know this is all new for you. And I know we’re probably the last people you want to be around right now. But we’re your family. Whether you like it or not.”

Damian’s eyes snapped to his, narrowing slightly. There was a flash of defiance there, a spark of something that made Dick’s heart ache even more. Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything else. He crossed his arms over his chest, the too-long sleeves of the hoodie bunching up awkwardly.

“Come on,” Dick said, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get back to the others. I think Alfred’s got some food ready, and trust me, you don’t want to miss one of his meals.”

As they walked back to the main part of the Batcave, Dick couldn’t help but glance at the boy beside him. He moved like a soldier, every step precise and controlled. He spotted mottled scars on the inside of his palms, what looked to be electrical burns. 

Dick didn’t know much about the kid, or what he had been through; he could only imagine the terrors that an 8-year old child soldier had gone through in order to become something like this. But he intended to break this shell. No matter what.

Chapter Text

The morning after Damian's arrival was thick with an uneasy quiet. The manor, usually alive with the soft bustle of Alfred’s early morning preparations or the occasional sound of Bruce and his sons moving about, felt muted. It was as if everyone was tiptoeing around the presence of the boy who had upended their world.

Damian was up before dawn, long before anyone else stirred. He’d spent the hours before sunrise methodically observing the grounds from his window, memorizing sightlines, and taking note of anything that could be used as an entry or escape point. He moved about the halls like a ghost, eyes glancing over framed portraits and decorations.

Bruce had introduced him to his room, claiming they could go to Ikea or any other furniture store to find things that Damian liked.

Damian had merely set his Katana on the desk and resumed his task.

By the time Alfred entered the kitchen to start breakfast, Damian was already there, seated at the edge of the long dining table. He sat with his back ramrod straight, hands resting on his knees, and his eyes scanning every movement the butler made.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said with a soft, but pointed nod. “You’re up early.”

Damian didn’t respond. His eyes flicked to the knife Alfred was using to chop vegetables, calculating its weight, its balance, its reach. Alfred noticed the look but said nothing, simply continuing his work with a practiced calm. 

Breakfast was a concept all too foreign to him; his hands itched for activity, for something to occupy his mind. He needed a mission; at the League, he was never idle. He was always on a mission, slicing through tissue, breaking through bone, or snapping necks. What Damian needed, was a new directive. 

His mother had informed him of his father’s night-time activities patrolling around the city. Perhaps his directive would start there. Until then, Damian sat at the table, awaiting his first command. 

The only noise that filled the kitchen was the sound of Alfred’s food preparation. The man confused Damian. Servants normally disregarded him entirely, serving his leftovers or food that hadn’t been deemed fit for the standards of the rest of the assassins. Yet Alfred’s keen eye kept flickering to Damian, as if silently questioning him. Perhaps the servant had a directive for him to obey, something for Damian to do, to fulfill his role.

Dick entered first, smiling as if to hide the fact that his entire world had been upended only a couple of hours ago. “Good morning Alfred. Good morning Damian.” the man had smiled, although Damian could see how it seemed to stretch at the edges, his eyes crinkled tightly. Damian ignored the man in favor of his father.

“Did you sleep well?” Dick asked, his fingers tapping against the mahogany dining table. But his question was met with silence as if the boy were simply trying his best to stare through the man. Dick’s smile faltered, feeling his heart be squeezed once more. It was like Damian was trying to break his heart.

“Tell me what you did this morning,” Dick said, eyes flickering down. He wanted to get to know the boy, but if he only answered commands, maybe that was the only way to get him to speak again. 

“Woke up at dawn. I surveyed the surveillance systems, the escape routes, and potential threats,” Damian replied robotically, eyes narrowed as Bruce came into the room. The response was more of a case briefing than anything, but Dick counted his wins as they came. 

“How did you enjoy the manor, Damian? Was your room comfortable?” Bruce asked as he took his place at the front of the table. Alfred slid a cup of coffee to him, glancing at Damian with encouragement. When the boy didn’t respond, Bruce deflated a little. “Please tell me how your stay was.”

Damian’s sharp green eyes flicked to Bruce, his posture as rigid as a soldier’s during a debriefing. “Acceptable,” he said curtly. His tone was devoid of emotion as if the question itself had been an unnecessary formality.

Bruce sighed internally, nodding at Alfred as a plate of scrambled eggs and toast was placed in front of Damian. He watched as the boy’s gaze lingered on the food, studying it as though it were a puzzle to solve rather than a meal.

“Eat,” Bruce instructed gently, though the weight of his voice left no room for argument.

Damian picked up the fork, his grip mechanical, and took a bite. He chewed methodically, his expression unreadable. Dick watched with growing concern, his plate untouched.

Jason entered the kitchen next, still pulling on his leather jacket, his expression twisted into a mix of irritation and disbelief. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Damian at the table, his lip curling slightly.

“Morning,” Jason muttered, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “Looks like the kid’s still here. Guess last night wasn’t just some bad dream.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned, his tone low but firm.

“What?” Jason said, shrugging as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“I don’t think that,” Dick interjected, his voice rising slightly.

Jason gave him a withering look before turning to Damian. “So, what’s the plan for today, kid ? Gonna practice sneaking around the manor? Or maybe sharpen that sword you brought into the house like we’re in some medieval drama?”. Jason wanted the kid to be a little shit-head, to say something in response. Hell, when he was a kid, he used every excuse in the book to prod at Bruce and Dick. 

But Damian’s eyes just flickered to him with disinterest as he continued to eat. Jason realized that no amount of prodding could make the kid speak unless he commanded it like a master with a dog. 

Suddenly, Jason had no appetite for the plate of waffles Alfred set in front of him.

“Damian,” Bruce said, leaning forward slightly. “Today, I’d like you to spend time with Dick. Get to know the manor, the grounds. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with everything here if you’re going to live with us.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head as if the entire concept was foreign to him. He used to live completely separate from the rest of the League. Even now, this ‘breakfast’ sends shivers down his spine. Damian hoped this was a test of his loyalty. And he still yearned for a directive.

“Yes,” Bruce said, his voice steady. “You’re part of this family now. Respond if you understand.”

“If that is your command,” Damian said finally, his tone resigned.

“It’s not a command,” Dick said quickly, leaning forward. “It’s an invitation. You’re allowed to... be here, Damian. To belong.”

Damian said nothing, his expression unreadable as he stared down at his plate.

Bruce stood, setting his empty coffee cup on the counter. “Dick, take Damian around the manor after breakfast. Show him the training room, the library, anything he might need to see.”

Dick nodded, his expression resolute. “Sure thing, Bruce.”

Bruce paused as he looked at Damian, his gaze softening just slightly. “You’re not just here to train, Damian. You’re here to learn what it means to be part of something bigger than yourself. Give it time. Say anything if you have any questions.”

Damian placed his fork down, raising his chin. “Will I be joining you for patrol?” he asked, his heart racing at the promise of a new training ground.

Bruce shared a look with the rest of the boys and opened his mouth, cut off by the groan of what looked to be, a very sleep-deprived Tim.

Tim stumbled into the kitchen, his hair an unkempt mess and dark circles under his eyes. He squinted against the morning light and made a beeline for the coffee machine, muttering something incomprehensible.

“Morning, Tim,” Dick greeted cheerfully, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement at Tim’s disheveled state.

“You look like shit, replacement,” called out Jason, who smirked through a sip of tea.

“Mmmm, eat shit.” Tim grumbled, his voice hoarse as he filled his mug. He turned, finally noticing Damian sitting at the table, and froze mid-sip. “Oh. Hello.” He said awkwardly, before shuffling to the table. Damian noted that he chose to sit closest to Damian. “What’s this I hear about patrol?”

Bruce crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Damian was asking if he would join us.”

Tim perked up slightly at that, setting his mug down with a thud. “Wait, what? You’re seriously considering letting him patrol?” He gestured toward Damian with a wide-eyed look. Damian’s eyes narrowed. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes flickered to Damian and he glanced at his father. 

It was too confusing to know when he could speak. His father had said he could speak whenever he wanted, but there was no want. His directives told me what to do, what habits he had, and what was expected of him. Yet clearly, he was failing to please his father, which contradicted another directive. 

“Damian, you can speak. Whenever you…think you can, you should.” Bruce smiled, reaching across the table to place a rough hand on Damian’s hand. And with that, Damian registered his command. Finally. 

“I have been trained since birth to be an assassin,” Damian said coolly, his gaze steady on Tim. “I can handle a simple patrol.”

“But patrolling Gotham isn’t simple,” Tim replied, shaking his head. “Bruce–”

“I didn’t say he’d be going on patrol,” Bruce said firmly, his voice cutting through the growing tension. He turned to Damian, his tone softening slightly. “Not yet. You’re still adjusting to life here, Damian. We need to take this one step at a time.”

“You doubt my capabilities. I am trained to obey you, just as–.”

“--It’s not about your abilities,” Bruce replied calmly. “It’s about trust. Patrolling as part of a team isn’t the same as working alone. You need to understand that before you can join us.”

“Trust,” Damian repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. His gaze flickered between Bruce and the others, his expression inscrutable.

“You’ll earn it,” Dick said, leaning forward with a warm smile. “It’s not about proving yourself. It’s about learning to work with us. And that takes time.”

Damian frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the answer but unwilling to argue further. He nodded. 

“Good,” Bruce said with a nod. “Dick, after your tour, take Damian to the training room. I want to see where he’s at with hand-to-hand combat.”

“Let’s get started,” Dick said, clapping his hands together as he stood. “Come on, Damian. I’ll show you around the manor. First stop, the Batcave.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, his interest piqued despite himself. Without a word, he followed Dick out of the kitchen, his posture as sharp and controlled as ever.

As the door swung shut behind them, Tim glanced at Bruce. “You really think this is going to work?”

Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It has to.”

Dick led Damian down to the training room, the cold air of the cavernous space enveloping them as they entered. The room was empty, the echo of their footsteps punctuating the stillness. The usual hum of activity in the manor felt like a distant memory. Damian walked beside Dick with an almost unnerving stillness, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his every movement precise but lacking the usual fluidity of someone used to their surroundings.

He almost wished that Damian would say something; be angry, sad, something. But it was like Dick was walking there alone, the only noise was the quiet steps and the small breaths that filled the halls.

The Training room was state-of-the-art, filled with punching bags and a wall-climbing machine. Dummies sat lined up against the walls and an array of rubber and wooden weapons were ordered perfectly in frames. Holograms could be programmed to imitate villains' average moves and typical sets. 

“Alright, show me what you got,” Dick smiled, throwing off a hoodie and readying his position. Damian simply nodded, getting into a stance that seemed to be waiting for Dick to say the wanted words. His eyes were hollow, and he seemed to float when in between commands. As if he wasn’t there.

Damian scanned the room with mechanical detachment, observing everything with the same motion as a camera would. Analyzing, searching. He folded his jacket with precision as if every motion were on autopilot.

In one blink, Damian launched himself with a flurry of strikes, each one precise to maim, injure, or kill. Bruce had told him yesterday that he may not kill or injure any one member of the family, but Dick knew that every strike was meant to hurt: one aimed at the groin, the trachea, the shin. 

Dick rolled to the side, turning up to spot that Damian had recovered, transferring the momentum of his first strikes into a rolling kick. It would be impressive, if not so unsettling. When Dick fought with people, he knew there was something in each strike, each kick; whether it was joy or anger, enjoyment or dread, each strike came from someplace within. But Damian recited each move like it was a coordinated move in a dance. It was like he simply summoned it from thousands of fights before, with no thought.

As Dick dodged and threw hits, he watched Damian with practiced efficiency. There was no wasted time, no wasted potential – every second was efficient and precise. But it chilled Dick to the bone. This style of fighting was only achieved after seemingly decades of training. Or – Dick’s stomach did a twist – if someone’s whole life revolved around training.

Dick moved to close the gap again, this time trying a different approach, throwing a kick aimed at Damian’s midsection. Once again, the boy didn’t move until the moment was right. With a quick, almost robotic turn, Damian swept the leg aside and retaliated with a low strike to Dick’s ribs. It landed, forcing Dick to stagger back. 

Damian then raised a fist, but Dick held up a hand. He dropped to a knee, glancing upwards. His breath heaved, and his eyes flared, but still… he looked to Dick like he was awaiting another command.

“That was…impressive,” Dick smiled, rubbing his side. He looked to Damian to see if he registered the compliment, but he simply shifted back into a fighting position, tilting his head. “You don’t need to be so…mechanical? If that makes sense? We’re just sparring. It’s okay to let loose and have fun. Make mistakes even, if you want to try another move or go over a fight again.”

Damian stared at him, his eyebrows pinched. He was still waiting.

“Alright. Let’s go again. This time, you block me.” And Dick inhaled, before launching into the fight.

 Dick closed the distance again, launching into a series of strikes—punches and kicks aimed at the boy. But each attack was met with flawless defense. Damian’s reflexes were like clockwork, responding with an eerie speed, his movements coming out of pure instinct, but there was something almost too perfect about it. 

And finally, Dick caught the boy off guard. He pulled a move from the League itself, rolling before swiping out with his leg mid-roll. The boy fell, and Dick stood, smiling with ease with his hand outstretched.

But Damian’s eyes simply narrowed, as if waiting for something. “Hey, look I’m sorry! It’s okay, we can try–”

Before Dick could react, Damian’s hand shot to his side, drawing a dagger from his belt. The boy’s motion was quick, the blade flashing in the light for a split second, before it cut into his thigh with clinical precision.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat. The boy wasn’t just fighting for the sake of sparring. He was using the pain to center himself—creating a contingency. An offering of his blood as a directive to continue, a sign that he was willing to push through.

Damian’s face was blank, his eyes cold as he adjusted his posture once again, waiting for the next command. He didn’t show pain. He didn’t flinch.

“You…” Dick’s voice caught. “Damian, why would you…?”

But Damian said nothing. He just stared ahead, the faintest trace of tension in his shoulders, as though he was simply waiting for the next directive. 

The truth of it hit Dick like a punch to the gut. Damian wasn’t just fighting because he wanted to prove himself. He was fighting because it was the only thing he knew. The only thing that made sense to him.

And the worst part? It was as though the boy didn’t even see himself as worthy of anything else.

Dick swallowed hard, his hand still hovering in the air, unsure whether to offer it, whether to speak. But for now, the silence between them said everything.

Damian’s body was waiting for the next order, his unblinking eyes telling Dick everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just a fight. This was a boy who had never known how to live without the next command.

Blood dribbled onto the ground before Dick lept into action, leaving the boy on the training mat and fetching a first aid kit. When he turned around, Damian remained in the same position, his head tilted once more.

“Hey, sit down on that bench. I need to treat your wound.” Dick said, trying to keep the waver from his voice. He knew that Damian needed help, that he was mechanical. But a part of him wanted to bring a side out of the boy. But this incident only cemented that it would take far more time than one sparring session.

Dick pressed gauze to the wound, searching for the needle and thread to stitch Damian up. He would call for Alfred or Bruce, but he feared embarrassing the boy. If this was his punishment, he knew a crowd would only make the boy even worse.

“Why are you helping me?” Damian asked, attempting to peel Dick’s hand away from his wound.

“Y-you’re hurt. Brothers…we help each other.” Dick offered, cleaning the wound with some alcohol.

“But I am not apart of the family. You are my commander.” And once again, Damian shattered Dick’s world with just one word. 

“Commander?”

Damian nodded as if this was obvious. “You instruct me. I perform. If I do not perform to one’s liking, I must restart again.”

“No no no no, you did just fine, Damian! Amazing.” Dick huffed, feeling sweat start to build on his forehead. And tears build in his eyes. This boy, this little boy, didn’t know about the concept of family. He had commands. He had his commander. And he had killed. Dick smiled before starting to stitch up the wound, constantly checking Damian’s reaction.

But the boy simply stared onward, his face perfectly neutral. “Alright, uhm, sparring over. How about we go rest, for a bit. Maybe see what the others are doing?” Dick tried, wrapping a roll of gauze over the wound. As he rose, Damian followed, not showing any signs of his injury. 

Dick suddenly felt way over his head. He wanted to be a good brother, he was Nightwing , for fuck’s sake. But the question still stood. If they couldn’t help Damian, who else could?

"You're my brother, Damian, okay?" Dick smiled, turning to look at him as he rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. Damian's eyes remained neutral, but for a moment so brief, something shifted in his eyes. They softened, for an imperceptible moment, before the cold settled in.

Chapter Text

The quiet hum of the Batcave filled the air as Dick sat at the Batcomputer, eyes scanning through data, his thoughts drifting back to earlier in the day. The sparring session had been tense, but it wasn’t just the fight that lingered in his mind—it was Damian. The kid was still so closed off, so unwilling to share anything. It had only been a couple of nights since they brought Damian back into the fold, yet it felt like a lifetime. For all they knew, everything was still so new for him. They were still trying to understand him, to figure out how to communicate with someone who had been raised in isolation, in a world of violence and strict rules.

Dick’s fingers drummed against the desk as he stared at the screen. The frustration gnawed at him. They’d barely scratched the surface with Damian. The boy wasn’t like the others. His walls were so high that it felt like every effort was futile.

Dick had tried everything, had introduced him to Jason and Tim’s hobbies, had tried to get him to cook with Alfred. While he was great at most of his hobbies, there was no enjoyment in them. Damian saw them as tasks, temporary tasks before awaiting a new one.

That was his life. An endless stream of missions and death, of training and punishments. Dick’s mind scrambled to comprehend what he might have gone through. And he tried asking, but Damian had turned to him, his green eyes blazing.

“My prior experience cannot be revealed,” he had said, with a ferocity that Dick just wasn’t expecting.

It was a line Dick had heard before, from hardened soldiers, from people who had no choice but to bury everything. But hearing it from a kid—his little brother—stung more than he wanted to admit.

Dick didn’t want to feel sorry for him. But it was hard not to.

So, it meant that Damian simply trained. It was what brought him just an ounce of joy if one could even call it that. Dick had told Bruce about the sparring incident, and Bruce had to take a couple of deep breaths before even responding. Bruce, Alfred, and Dick were the only ones who knew; it felt weird to speak about the boy without him knowing, and Dick would feel even worse if the whole family discussed him behind his back.

Bruce had commanded, with a shaky voice, that Damian could not harm himself.

When Dick heard footsteps, he automatically assumed it was Damian, but it was Bruce, clad in his suit, domino on, setting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. He grunted, which was as much encouragement as Dick was going to get.

But before joining the others, Tim still testing his bo-staff and Jason back in Crime Alley, Dick spotted Damian in his League apparel once more.

“Damian—”

“I have trained. I am ready. Sir.” Damian nodded, unsheathing his sword. Damian’s voice was mechanical, practiced, and Bruce’s eyes flicked toward the boy’s stance. The way he held himself, sword unsheathed, posture sharp. There was no doubt Damian was ready—he was always ready. Ready to fight, ready to kill, ready for war. But he wasn’t ready for family.

Bruce’s face darkened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he regained his usual mask of stoic control. His gaze locked onto the boy.

“Damian,” Bruce’s voice was low, controlled. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Damian didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “I have trained. I am ready. Sir.” His grip on the katana tightened.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, his silence spoke louder than any words. “I told you, you’re not ready to be out there. Not like this.”

Dick stepped forward, trying to cut through the tension. “Damian—this isn’t about proving yourself, alright? This is about being part of something. We’re a team. You don’t have to take everything on by yourself.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but his expression didn’t change. He still wasn’t hearing it. His gaze shifted like he was already planning his next move. Dick noted that they still hadn’t said a command. This meant that in Damian’s mind, he could not do anything besides affirm his ability to obey.

Bruce sighed, the sound barely escaping his chest, a mixture of frustration and something unspoken. “You don’t protect your brothers by charging into danger. Your job is to protect them by keeping your distance—by letting them protect you. Do you understand?”

Tim stood silently in the dark, his stomach churning. He wanted to step in and provide some backup to Damian, but he agreed. The boy wasn’t ready.

Without another word, Damian turned sharply and headed for the elevator, heading toward the garage. He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge the order.

Bruce watched him go, his mouth tight, brow furrowed, but there was no softening in his expression. He didn’t chase after him. He didn’t call him back. He simply stood there, a shadow in the Batcave, watching the boy’s retreating form, unsure whether his approach was working or failing miserably. 

Dick exhaled, rubbing his face. “This is a mess.”

Bruce didn’t respond at first. When he finally did, his voice was distant, detached, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “We can’t help him heal overnight. But he will heal. In time.”

As Bruce and Dick prepared for Patrol, neither of them spoke about the boy who had just left. Neither of them acknowledged what was coming. They both knew it was inevitable. Damian would learn, yes, but whether he would learn in time was something they would have to wait to find out.

And as the city stirred beneath them, Gotham’s newest protector moved silently in the dark.

Damian knew his commands and directives were different. Commands were temporary.

But his new directive, Protect your brothers, gave him something. As he stalked from rooftop to rooftop, he decided to go after Jason, the lone wolf on the edges of Gotham.

Protect, his mind urged.

Jason didn’t want to say it. He didn’t. He already had a bad day; first off, his Monstera plant had died. He opened his favorite book to a dog-eared page. And worst off, his apartment was out of groceries.

But he was truly fucked.

Mercenaries stalked around the warehouse, their boots clanging against the rusted metal floor, echoing in the still, cold air. Jason pressed himself against the wall, the rough concrete biting into his back. His knuckles tensed around his pistol, but the weight of his exhausted ammo clipped at his confidence.

Twelve. No, thirteen. He counted the shadows crossing over the dim light spilling from a flickering bulb. Each one of them was armed to the teeth. They weren’t your typical Gotham thugs. Too organized, too coordinated. A squad trained to kill.

And they were looking for him.

“Red Hood’s somewhere in here!” one of them barked, their voice muffled by a tactical helmet. “Stick together. He’s not getting out alive. The bastard’s gotta be here, somewhere.”

Jason rolled his eyes. Classic mistake. He’d dealt with enough of these goons to know their strategies by now. Still, he wasn’t exactly sitting pretty. His arsenal was pitiful—two rubber bullets left, a knife with a chipped edge, and a flashbang he’d been saving for emergencies.

And, a broken ankle, bruised ribs, a concussion, and a very concerning stab wound in his shoulder. Just fuckin’ peachy.

Jason sighed, rising to his feet with a grunt. “This is Red Hood. I’m near the piers, but there’s a large group of mercenaries. Think they’re guarding something. Thought it was a smaller group, but this is most likely an international agency.”

Jason could hear the faint crackle of his comm in his ear. It was overloaded tonight—voices layering over each other, the chaos of Gotham spilling out into every corner of the city. Batman was busy. Nightwing was halfway across town. Oracle’s voice was swallowed in the torrent of overlapping chatter. And who the fuck knew where Robin was. Oracle gave him a time of around half an hour.

Okay, fuck it then.

Jason threw the flash-bang over his shoulder, not bothering to watch where it landed. A split second later, the warehouse lit up like a supernova. The mercenaries shouted, their formations breaking as the flash disoriented them. Jason grinned, stepping into the chaos with his gun raised.

Two shots. Two mercenaries down.

The pistol clicked empty, but Jason didn’t pause. He dropped it, lunging forward to disarm another attacker. A sharp elbow to the throat, a sweep of the leg, and the merc went down like a sack of bricks. The pain of his ankle seemed to be a backdrop, but the constant pain like hot honey was getting harder to ignore as he moved about, using pillars as cover.

“Three,” Jason counted under his breath.

But his victory was short-lived. He heard the hum of a drone overhead just before the piercing alarm signaled its activation. A bright red light bathed the floor, locking onto his position.

“Oh, come on,” Jason groaned, diving for cover as the drone’s turret whirred to life. Bullets tore through the air, shredding the crates around him into splinters and tearing penny-sized holes into the warehouse walls.

Pinned down, Jason clenched his jaw, his mind racing for options. The mercenaries were regrouping, the drone was circling, and his usual cocky bravado was starting to feel a little hollow.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He glanced at the abandoned weapons of the mercenaries, but they were all out of clips, and based on the number of mercenaries, he either had to flee or fight hand to hand. His headache screeched at him and he chewed the inside of his mouth, tasting blood.

That’s when the skylight above shattered.

Glass rained down, catching the drone’s light in a cascade of glittering shards. Jason looked up, his eyes narrowing at the figure dropping from the shadows above.

Oh, no.

A cape billowed as the figure landed with feline precision. Damian.

The kid moved like a storm—fast, precise, and unrelenting. His katana sliced through the air, cutting down the first mercenary who dared to step toward him. The drone swiveled to target him, but Damian was already moving, leaping onto a stack of crates and hurling a shuriken into its turret. Sparks flew as the machine sputtered and crashed to the floor.

Jason groaned, dragging himself out of cover. “What the hell are you doing here, kid?” This was probably the worst-case scenario. The kid glanced at him, tightening his hold on the sword.

“Protect,” the kid said, intelligently, raising the katana when Jason grabbed his forearm and dragged him close.

“Hey. Do not fucking engage. Stay here, and stay out of sight. Got it?” he said, his voice rough as his mask stared into the emerald eyes of the boy. “Nod if you understand”, Jason’s hand clenched the boy. Damian gave one, single nod, tucking himself close to the pillar. And in one smooth motion, gave Jason rubber bullets and 3 daggers. Damian began to quickly stop the bleeding in his shoulder, giving him a once over before Jason headed out.

He dodged the stream of bullets and fired off quick, precise shots, each bullet striking with brutal efficiency. One mercenary fell, clutching his knee, another rolled with a hit to his shoulder.

Jason used his pain and Damian’s presence to ground him as he used the butt of his gun and a well-aimed strike to send one mercenary into a stack of crates. Jason ducked behind cover again, reloading quickly, glancing over to Damian’s hiding spot.

Which was empty.

Shit.

Jason looked around, realizing that he had around 6 other mercenaries left. And one missing kid. He hissed into his comm, “Hey guys…looks like Damian is out on patrol. When were you guys gonna tell me?” In an instant, the comms erupted in shouts and yells. “I’m near the piers and the little demon decided to follow me. He gave me some much-needed supplies, but he isn’t listening to me.”

In any other scenario, Jason would have cheered and high-fived the kid for the rebellion, but not when it came to mercenaries whose morals didn’t stop for a child. Dick had informed him the kid was a good fighter, great even. But Jason remained unconvinced when it came to his regard for personal safety. “Stay there. Tim and I will be there in 5 minutes.” Bruce growled his voice more like a rumble than any form of human speech.

Jason sighed when he heard a pained shout coming from the east side of the Pier. Sucking in a breath, he half-limped, half-ran over, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The kid was fighting against a man twice his size, 5 other bodies left collapsed around him. Although he was fairing well, with well-timed dodges, Jason noticed a stream of blood running from his thigh and what looked to be a broken nose. Jason raised his gun, firing shots at the man till he went down. 

Then he saw the little demon sprint towards him.

And in a moment, tackled him to the ground, just when a mercenary came from the shadows with a strike of a large empty rifle, directly hitting Damian’s ribs, which covered Jason’s body. The man with the wounded shoulder. With the pit screaming in his ear, he raised a dagger and jammed it into the man’s foot, before knocking the man out with a swing of his arm.

“Hey kid, why didn’t you just.. tell me about the man?” He asked, lifting Damian to a lying down position. Despite the grimace on his face, there was no yelp of pain as Jason took off his armor, the gentleness unusual with his normally abrasive attitude.

“…Reaction time,” he simply said, closing his eyes as Jason carefully unveiled his clothing. And almost instantly felt the pit whispering in his ear. His abdomen was covered in spider veins, the ones you can only get from electricity. Additionally, there were large gashes and scars Jason knew were from gunshots. He bit his cheek even more, tasting iron. “J-jesus Kid. What the fuck happened to you?” he breathed out, wrapping the boy’s scarily thin stomach with bandages.

The boy’s body was a canvas of pain, the puckering and raised edges of some cuts years old, while others were only weeks past. What was worse was the evidence that some of the scars were self-inflicted. Jason’s jaw was clenched as he attempted to process it all. 

Damian stared at him, and shook his head, before letting it drop to the dirty cement. As if answering Jason’s question was obvious. Ra’s happened to him. Talia happened to him. And now the kid was acting like a human shield for grown-ass adults. For him. 

“Hood!” a voice called out, Jason instinctively going for his weapon only for Tim to sprint over. 

“Damian!” Tim’s voice cracked as he skidded to a halt. He took in the scene — the bandages, the scars, Damian’s stoic expression — and his breath hitched. 

Jason saw the tears welling in Tim’s eyes and immediately spoke up. “He’s okay,” he said, holding up a hand. “Took a hit for me. Dumbass move, but he’’ll be okay.”

Tim ignored him, dropping to his knees in front of Damian. His hands hovered uselessly for a moment, as though he wanted to touch the kid, but wasn’t sure where it was safe. “Why would you do that?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why—”

“It was logical,” Damian said flatly. “Your life is valuable to the mission,” Tim flinched like he’d been slapped. Jason could see the cracks forming in his composure, and for once, he didn’t comment.

The last to arrive was Bruce. His presence was like a thundercloud, dark and heavy as he strode towards them. His expression was a mask of controlled fury, but when his eyes landed on Damian, it shifted. Rage gave way to something far worse: horror.

“Damian,” Bruce said, his voice low and uneven. He stopped a few feet away, as if he was afraid to get closer, afraid to see more. “What happened?”

Damian’s head tilted slightly, his sharp gaze meeting Bruce’s. “I did my duty.”

Jason stood, his fists clenching at his sides. “Yeah, your duty apparently includes using your body as a human shield. Want to tell him about it? Or should I?”

“There is nothing else to tell,” Damian said. He sat up from his position, wincing slightly but refusing to acknowledge it.

Tim looked up at Bruce, voice breaking and barely above a whisper. “He’s covered in scars, Bruce. Scars from…from everything.”

Bruce’s mouth opened, then closed again. For a long moment, he simply stared at Damian., his face a mixture of grief and guilt. “Damian…” he began, but what was there to say? That he was sorry? That he hadn’t known? None of it would erase what had already been done to his son. 

“I am fine,” Damian insisted, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “I require no further assistance.”

“You are not fine,” Jason snapped, stepping forward. “Look at yourself! You’re nine years old and have been through more than most adults three times your age. That’s not fine, and it’s sure as hell not normal.”

Damian’s jaw tightened as his gaze flickered from person to person, “I do not require pity.”

“This isn’t pity,” Bruce said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “This is a concern. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for a command, or a directive. You shouldn’t have had to in the first place.”

Damian’s shoulders stiffened, the walls going up again. “If I do not act, what purpose do I serve?”

Jason cursed under his breath, and Tim looked as if he was already scheming a takedown of the League. Bruce took a cautious step further, his gloved hand coming to rest on his son’s shoulder.

“You are my son. You’re their brother. No one expects you to carry this alone.” The words hung in the air, heavy and uncertain. Damian didn’t respond, but his posture shifted slightly. And Tim stood, offering a gloved hand, his eyebrows bent in concern. 

Damian glanced up, eyes darting through a flurry of emotions before he went and took it.

Chapter Text

The clock struck well past midnight as Alfred sat down with practiced efficiency, the sound of the first aid kit snapping open echoing softly in the quiet of the manor’s infirmary. Damian sat on the exam table, his small frame rigid and unmoving. His eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, unyielding. He looked more like a statue than a boy.

“Master Damian,” Alfred began, his voice calm and even as he pulled on a pair of gloves, “if you insist on leaping into harm’s way, might I recommend avoiding blunt-force trauma to your ribs in the future? It does create quite a mess for an old man like myself. You are lucky that you only broke a couple of ribs.”

Damian didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. Alfred sighed quietly to himself and gently began peeling back the bloodied bandages Jason had hastily applied. His steady hands worked methodically, revealing bruised and battered skin, a stark contrast against the young boy’s otherwise tan complexion.

“You’ve done well to keep your posture upright despite the damage,” Alfred continued, his tone conversational as he examined the extent of the injuries. “However, I must insist that you refrain from such heroics until you are fully grown. Your body, remarkable though it is, is still that of a child.” Alfred paused, weathered fingers grazing over the mountain and valleys of scars, eyes flickering to Damian’s expression. When Alfred’s fingers grazed over the long scar that spanned the length of the boy’s spine, Damian flinched, a detail that didn’t go unnoticed under the man’s tired gaze.

“Training, or punishment?” he asked, undoing a gauze roll

“Neither,” Damian answered, eyes avoiding Alfed’s gaze. The man hummed but remained silent, shifting his focus to his work.

“Scars like these often tell stories, Master Damian. Some of pain, yes, but others… of survival. Of resilience”, The butler said it with such kindness, Damian wished he had yelled instead. It was strange, the Wayne Manor. Not just the extravagance, when Damian was used to the bare necessities. But rather, focused attention. Focused constant attention felt strange; it wasn’t the type subject to training, that seemed to spot any hesitation or inaccuracy, but rather something.. softer. It unsettled Damian, his stomach growing warm when his mind flicked back to earlier in the night.

Damian had simply fulfilled his objective and had expected further training as a result of disobeying Todd’s command. But rather, Todd and Drake had rushed to his aid, similar to one would to a comrade. Of course, this was frustrating in the sense that it may have compromised Damian’s objective. But staring into the teary eyes of Drake, Damian felt something shift. His responsibility, as a weapon, was to protect the target.

Damian looked away, his expression tightening further, but he didn’t argue. Alfred returned to his work, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds with a gentleness that belied his efficiency. His movements were quiet, and deliberate, giving Damian the space to process without pressure.

The silence stretched on for several minutes before Damian spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “It is my responsibility to ensure their safety. If I fail, I must rethink. Reevaluate. Regroup.”

Alfred’s hands froze, if only for a fraction of a second. He placed the gauze in his hand down on the tray beside him and straightened, looking at Damian with a rare sharpness in his eyes. 

“Master Damian,” he said, his tone firm but kind, “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from speaking about yourself in such terms. While I appreciate the care you have for your brothers, it is unwise to continually push oneself without thinking of one’s health.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. Alfred resumed his work, wrapping the boy’s ribs with careful precision. 

“You remind me of your father when he first came under my care,” Alfred said after a moment. “Stubborn, unwilling to admit to pain, and convinced that the weight of the world rested solely upon his shoulders.” He glanced at Damian, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I see now that such traits run in the family.”

Damian didn’t respond, but the rigidity in his shoulders eased just slightly. When Alfred finished securing the bandages, he rested a hand lightly on Damian’s uninjured shoulder.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said gently, “it is a brave thing to protect those you care for. But true strength also lies in allowing others to care for you. You are not alone in this household nor in this family.”

For a long moment, Damian sat perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, he gave the barest nod. Not a salute, but not an agreement either.

Alfred patted his shoulder and began cleaning up the supplies. “Now,” he said briskly, “off to bed with you. And no arguments, or I shall inform Master Bruce of your disobedience.”

Damian’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before he slid off the exam table. Without a word, he turned and left the infirmary, his steps quieter than a whisper. Alfred watched him go, his expression softening with a mixture of pride and concern.

“Like father, like son,” he murmured to himself before beginning to tuck the bandages away.

Damian stalked through the dim hallways of Wayne Manor, the silence pressing against him like an unwanted shadow. Without a directive, without a task to occupy his mind, the stillness became unbearable. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of wind against the windows—it all grated on his nerves.  

What was he supposed to do now?  

He had always been given orders, and clear instructions to follow. Without them, there was no structure, no purpose. He felt like a weapon discarded, a tool left to rust. While he did complete his objective, Damian felt uneasy. Normally, his performance was met with critical evaluation, a clear response to how he performed. But instead, the conversation had shifted, not to how he could have helped Todd further, but to Damian himself. Damian’s wants, his feelings, his past. 

It was dizzying.

Pausing at the edge of the hallway, Damian’s sharp ears caught the faint sound of something… unnatural. A repetitive clicking noise, punctuated by bursts of tinny music and occasional groans of frustration. He slipped closer, his steps silent, until he peered around the doorway.  

Tim sat sprawled on the couch, a controller in his hands, his eyes glued to the television screen. The glow of the game reflected off his face, which was contorted in concentration as he maneuvered his character through a horde of pixelated enemies. Despite it technically being early morning, Tim was up an energy drink in the provided cup holder and a bag of chips tossed lazily onto one of the cushions.

Damian lingered in the doorway, unsure why he stayed. He had no particular interest in this trivial pastime, but something was grounding about watching someone so absorbed in something so… inconsequential. The boy didn’t need to play this unnecessary game. It neither helped in patrol nor helped him in his social life. 

It was a simple survival game by the looks of it, monsters crouching on the edge of the screen as the boy gathered wheat with the swing of a long sword. 

“You’re going to stand there all night?” Tim asked, not looking away from the screen.  

Damian stiffened but stepped inside the room. He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning the space as if searching for some hidden purpose.  

Tim paused the game and set the controller down, glancing up at him. “Damian?”  His eyebrows were knit in concern.

The question caught him off guard. He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides. “I… have no orders,” he said finally, the words mechanical as if ripped from some internal script.  

Tim tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t need orders to exist, you know. You can just… do what you want.” 

“That is illogical,” Damian said flatly. “Without commands, there is no function. Without function, there is no… point.”  

Tim blinked at him, clearly unsure how to respond to such a statement. After a moment, he sighed and gestured to the space next to him. “Okay, first off, sit down before you make me feel even worse about my posture.”  Tim grabbed the chips and laid them on the arms of one of the seats, patting the cushion with a soft smile.

Damian hesitated but eventually sat, his movements stiff and deliberate.  

Tim studied him for a moment before speaking again. “Look, I get that this is all new for you. Being here, being… part of this family. It’s probably overwhelming. Everyone here started the same way. We’re not expecting you to…adjust quickly, not by any means. But we want to reaffirm that you still belong here. Even if it feels uncomfortable or strange, that doesn’t indicate anything about us not wanting you here.” 

Damian’s gaze dropped to the floor, his expression unreadable. “Belong,” he repeated, as though testing the word.  

“Yeah,” Tim said, leaning back against the couch, and taking a sip of the carbonated drink. “And I know we’ve only just met, but… I care about you. We all do.”  

Damian’s head snapped up, his green eyes narrowing. “You hardly know me,” he said, his voice tinged with suspicion. Tim was his job, his objective. Why was everyone insisting that they saw Damian differently?

Tim shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You’re my brother now, Damian. And whether you like it or not, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Which means you’re stuck with me.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists in his lap. “You are reckless,” he said, his tone cold but trembling slightly. “You endanger yourself unnecessarily. You push yourself to exhaustion, stay up late, and endanger yourself with worrying amounts of caffeine.” Damian’s eyes narrowed at the energy drink. 

Tim raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Are you… worried about me?”  

Damian bristled, his jaw tightening. “A soldier must protect his unit. That is my directive.”  

Tim sighed, shaking his head. “You’re not a soldier, Damian. You’re a kid. My brother. And you don’t have to follow anyone’s orders to care about people—or to be cared for.”  

For a moment, Damian didn’t respond. His gaze drifted to the paused game on the screen, the glowing pixels casting faint shadows across his face. “I do not know how to exist without purpose,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.  

Tim’s expression softened. “Then maybe your purpose can be something else. Like… I don’t know, figuring out what makes you happy? Being part of this family?”  

Damian looked at him, his eyes searching Tim’s face for some hint of deceit. Finding none, he nodded stiffly, though his posture remained tense.

Tim smiled faintly, picking up the controller again. “That’s a start. Now, do you want to learn how to play, or are you gonna keep brooding in the corner like someone we both know?”  

Damian’s lips twitched, just barely, before settling back into their usual neutrality. “I will observe,” he said, folding his hands neatly in his lap.  

Tim chuckled, unpausing the game. “Fair enough.”  

And for the first time since arriving at the manor, Damian allowed himself to sit, to watch, to exist—if only for a little while—without a command. He leaned back as Tim began exploring a cave, rambling on about the hero with the one sword.

“Awh, are you guys having fun without me?” Both of the boys turned to spot Dick, leaning against the pillar, a smile on his face. His eyes were tinged red and swollen, his smile stretched wide at the corners. Tim shrugged, gesturing to the screen as his hand reached for the bag of chips.

“Morning Timmers. Morning Dami.” the man smiled, sitting down on the couch, his face battered and bruised. Damian scowled at the injury, mentally noting to ask for better access to the comms for more efficient communication. Perhaps Dick needed more assistance than Jason, and he had evaluated wrong.

“Is that what you wish for me to respond to?” Damian asked head tilted quizzically. 

“No, it’s a nickname! Tim, what are you— use the ice sword!” Dick sighed dramatically, using his unbroken arm to grab a fistful of chips. Tim rolled his eyes, continuing to hit one of the buttons vigorously.

“You are up as well? Did you wish to train further?” Damian asked, eyeing the sweatpants and tank top the man was currently sporting.

“No, No. Just uh… sleeping stuff.” Dick said with a glance, wiping at his eyes. Dick shifted slightly on the couch, the corners of his smile twitching downward despite his efforts to maintain a cheerful facade. His body language betrayed him—a subtle tremor in his hands, the way his gaze flickered toward the screen but never quite focused. Damian noticed, of course, his sharp eyes missing nothing, but he stayed silent, watching Dick with an unreadable expression.

Tim paused the game again, setting the controller aside. “Alright, what’s up?” he asked, his tone gentler than usual as he turned his full attention to Dick. “You don’t usually come down here unless something’s eating at you.”

Dick sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “It’s nothing, Tim. I just… couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Dick,” Tim said, his voice firm. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer, and I’m not just talking about patrol. What happened?”

For a moment, Dick didn’t respond. His gaze dropped to his lap, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tank top. “Nightmare,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s stupid. Just… stuff. Stuff I thought I was over.”

Tim’s expression softened, and he moved closer, leaning forward slightly. “It’s not stupid,” he said, his voice steady. “You’ve been through a lot, Dick. No one expects you to be over it completely. Nightmares happen. They don’t make you weak or anything.”

Dick chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, try telling that to my subconscious.” He sighed, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes for a moment. “It’s just… I guess with everything that’s been happening lately—it’s all piling up. I keep dreaming about falling. About not being able to save anyone. It’s ridiculous.”

Tim reached over, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “It’s not ridiculous. You’ve been carrying the weight of this family for years. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed sometimes. You’re human, Dick. And you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

Damian watched the exchange silently, his gaze flickering between the two. The concept of leaning on others for emotional support was foreign to him, yet there was something oddly grounding about the way Tim and Dick interacted. It was… different from what he was used to.

As the game resumed, Damian sat quietly, observing the ease with which Tim comforted Dick and the subtle way Dick allowed himself to lean on his younger brother. For the first time, Damian wondered if perhaps there was more to this family than just directives and missions.

“You really scared us with that move you pulled. I know you wanted to come to patrol to protect us. But, if you’re just going to throw yourself in harm’s way, we can’t let you on patrol. It’s more than just…stopping crime. It’s also about being a figure for the city, as well.” Dick added, turning his face towards Damian.

Tim nodded, his gaze still focused on the game, but with less precision. “Dick’s right. We’re all thankful you helped Jason out, but not if it means you’re going to return battered and bruised.” 

Damian stared at them, his face a mask of neutral. “I have faired far worse than mercenaries at a much younger age.” He paused, before turning his head to add quietly, “My purpose— my directive brings me… ‘happiness’. It is what allows me to be efficient.” 

Dick and Tim shared a look, before Dick wrapped an arm around Damian in a half-hug, rubbing the boy’s opposite arm. “Alright. Then we need to shape you up for Gotham. First, there needs to be some ground rules.”

“You can’t use your body as a shield, or sacrifice yourself for us, like you did today. There will be accidents, of course. But, every action should not be a sacrifice of yourself or others, but rather attempting to minimize someone being hurt.” Tim added softly, his eyes scanning over Damian’s ribs. 

Damian shifted uncomfortably under Dick's arm, his rigid posture a stark contrast to the warmth of the gesture. “I was effective. Jason is uninjured because of my actions,” he stated flatly, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

“No one’s saying you weren’t,” Dick replied, his tone calm but firm. “What we’re saying is you don’t have to destroy yourself to protect us. We’re a team. That means working together, not throwing yourself into danger like a one-man army.”

Tim nodded in agreement, setting the controller down. “And honestly, Dami, you’ve got a lot to learn about teamwork. No offense, but you’re kind of a lone wolf right now.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering between the two of them. He hated feeling as though he was being lectured, but the genuine concern in their voices made it difficult to snap back with his usual sarcasm. “I will consider your… advice,” he muttered, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

“Good.” Dick grinned, squeezing Damian’s shoulder before releasing him. “Because you’re not just a soldier here. You’re part of a family. And as much as you might hate it, that means we’re going to look out for you, whether you like it or not.”

Damian frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I do not require coddling.”

“Coddling?” Tim smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Trust me, Damian, this isn’t coddling. If you want coddling, you should see how Alfred deals with Bruce when he gets sick. That’s a whole other level.”

Dick chuckled at the memory, the sound lightening the mood. “Tim’s right. You haven’t experienced true coddling until Alfred makes you his special chicken soup and forces you to stay in bed for 48 hours straight.”

The corner of Damian’s mouth twitched, just barely, at the thought of Alfred attempting to impose such restrictions on him. “I doubt I would be subjected to such treatment.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Tim said, picking up his controller again. “Alfred’s like a force of nature. No one escapes the soup.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the sounds of the game and the occasional crunch of chips. Damian leaned back slightly, his body relaxing just a fraction. He still didn’t entirely understand this dynamic, this strange blend of camaraderie and chaos, but for the first time, he didn’t feel completely out of place.

“So,” Dick said, breaking the silence, “what’s the plan for today? Are we all just going to sit around and watch Tim fail miserably at his game?”

“Hey!” Tim protested, his focus unwavering from the screen. “I’m not failing. I’m strategically gathering resources.”

“Sure you are,” Dick teased, nudging Damian with his elbow. “What do you think, Dami? Should we let him keep playing, or should we stage an intervention?”

Damian tilted his head, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “His strategy is flawed. He is expending too much time on unnecessary objectives.”

“Et tu, Damian?” Tim groaned, throwing his head back in mock exasperation.

Dick laughed, the sound was genuine and contagious. “You two are going to get along just fine. I can feel it.”

Chapter Text

The warm dawn sunlight streamed through the cream curtains, rays of sun pouring into pools on the wooden floors. Damian sat upright in his bed, his back stiff with physical pain and pride, as the faint morning light seeped through the edges of the curtains. His body ached with every breath—a sharp reminder of his injury from protecting Jason the night before. His ribs, bruised and wrapped tightly under Alfred’s careful hands, protested as he shifted to stand.

He glanced at the sword, propped up by a stand his father had ordered for him. The room was bare, the walls clear of any posters or decorations, although the furnishings were leagues better than Nanda Parat. He itched to clutch the sword and begin training, pushing past the weakness that tore at him. Instead, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration burning beneath the surface. 

As he rose out of bed, he rasped, feeling electrical sparks of pain travel from his side and aches travel from his back. He needed to be more efficient. But, memories of earlier that morning, his comrades gathering the snacks. Of Tim ruffling his hair and Dick offering to sleep in his room.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said sharply, an eyebrow raised as he carried a tray of eggs, avocado toast, and tea. “You are supposed to be resting. Do not make me resort to tying you to the bed.”

“I am fine,” Damian insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. Alfred shook his head, sighing as he placed the tray on the bedside table.

“It is not a sign of weakness to allow your body the time it needs to heal. Stubbornness, however, might make the process longer and decidedly more unpleasant.” Alfred offered his arm, eyebrows furrowed. “If you insist on moving about, at least allow me to help.”

Damian huffed and strained to get up, taking Alfred’s arm with rosy cheeks. As Alfred led him out of the room, he could feel the pull of exhaustion in his muscles, the way his body begged him to stop.

But stopping felt too much like failure.

The smell hit Damian as soon as he stepped into the dining room, sharp and intrusive. The savory aroma of sizzling beef mingled with the lighter scent of eggs and toast, creating a hearty breakfast spread that had the rest of the family gathered around the table.

Alfred nodded to him, his eyebrows bent in worry before he attended to the stove. Dick was pouring coffee for Tim, his grin lopsided as he teased Jason about his questionable table manners. Jason, halfway through a mouthful of eggs, responded with an exaggerated eye roll. Bruce sat at the head of the table, flipping through the morning paper with his usual detached air, though Damian caught the faintest upward twitch of his lips as Dick and Jason bickered.

“Morning, Damian,” Dick smiled, pulling out a chair next to him. “We didn’t think you’d join us today. Alfred said you were still supposed to be resting.”

Damian hesitated at the threshold, his fingers tightening on the doorframe. The heat from the kitchen and the rich scent of beef filled the air, settling in his chest like a weight. He suppressed a gag reflex, forcing himself to straighten his back. “I do not require much rest,” he replied, his voice sharp enough to draw Bruce’s eyes over the edge of the paper.

“You don’t require a lot of things, apparently,” Jason quipped, gesturing toward the empty chair. “Like breakfast. Or sleep. But you’re here, so—sit down.”

With measured steps, Damian crossed the room and sat down, his movements careful not to jostle his ribs. Alfred had already set a plate for him, complete with toast, eggs, and a small serving of the beef hash everyone else seemed to be devouring. He stared at the plate, his appetite vanishing as the smell became overpowering.

The smell . 

Faintly, Damian could hear the roar of fire. He could see how the fat bubbled and popped, rolling off of soft curves and hissing against the coals. 

Damian stared at his plate, feeling a roll of nausea in his stomach and bile rise in his throat. He gulped, taking a sip of orange juice, trying to extinguish the memory from his mind. It was ridiculous to still be hung up on the fire, the smell. 

“You okay?” Tim asked, breaking off a piece of toast and glancing at him.

“I am fine,” Damian said curtly, picking up his fork. He stabbed at the eggs, pushing them around the plate before lifting a bite to his mouth. The texture was fine—fluffy and seasoned enough—but the smell lingered in his nostrils.

He tried to take a bite of the beef. The moment the fork neared his mouth, his stomach twisted. His jaw clenched as he quickly set it back down. He reached for his glass, hoping to drown out the taste still lingering on his tongue.

“You look like you’re gonna be sick,” Jason said, narrowing his eyes at him.

“Jason,” Dick said warningly. Then, turning to Damian, he softened his tone. “Hey, if you’re not feeling up to it, you don’t have to eat the beef. Alfred can make you something else.”

“The food is adequate,” Damian pressed, his eyebrows furrowing.

Dick held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Just... don’t force it, alright?”

Damian nodded curtly but kept his gaze locked on his plate. His chest tightened with shame as he pushed the beef hash aside, nibbling at the toast instead. The warmth and light chatter of the family felt too close, too much, and yet he remained rooted in his seat, forcing himself to stay.

He didn’t look up when Alfred entered the room with a fresh pot of coffee, nor when Dick leaned over to slide the beef off his plate and onto his own.

For all his determination to prove he belonged at the table, Damian couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on him. The smell of the beef still lingered in the air, but he pressed his lips into a thin line and kept his hands steady.

If he couldn’t complete one simple task, what did that say about him? 

After breakfast, Damian excused himself with a curt nod and retreated to the garden. The cool morning air was a welcome reprieve from the oppressive warmth of the dining room, and the faint hum of insects replaced the chatter of his family.

He leaned against the stone wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The nausea had lessened, but the discomfort remained—a dull, insistent knot in his stomach that refused to ease.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, willing himself to push past it. He could still smell the beef, a phantom scent clinging stubbornly to his senses. Memories threatened to rise—sharp and unbidden—but he shoved them down with practiced force.

“Mind if I join you?”

Damian’s eyes snapped open to see Dick standing a few feet away, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He wasn’t smiling this time, though his posture remained relaxed.

“It is up to you to join me,” Damian said, purposely avoiding Dick’s soft gaze. He did not deserve it. No matter how many times they placed their soft hands on his shoulder, wrapped their arms around his hardened body, or told him they loved him – it did nothing. It did nothing for the blood caked under his fingernails. The screams that haunted his sleep. And the comfortable grip his hand had over his sword.

“You alright? If you didn’t feel up to moving around today, we could have had breakfast in your room. Since you enjoy our company that much,” Dick smiled, his arm wrapping around Damian’s shoulder.

“It would be unnecessary. Besides, I must attend patrol today. If I were to stay in bed, it would not aid anyone,” Damian said robotically, but there was a tightness in his voice. One that Dick could not place.

“You don’t have to constantly help everyone. Not if you’re struggling yourself.” Damian glanced over, Dick looking wistfully at the cherry trees in the corner of the gardens. For a moment, the man had a flicker of sadness, before it disappeared quick enough that Damian thought he imagined it. 

Damian turned his gaze back toward the horizon, his posture rigid as the gentle breeze played with the loose strands of his dark hair. “Struggling is irrelevant,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “There is no benefit in allowing myself to falter. I was taught—”

Dick interrupted him softly, “Yeah, I know what you were taught. And I know you’re still unlearning a lot of it.” He squeezed Damian’s shoulder briefly before letting his arm fall away. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry all of this on your own. You know that, right?”

Damian opened his mouth to answer, but Dick shook his head, “I know, I know. ‘I can handle it.’ But the truth is, it’s hard, to keep everything inside all the time. You don’t have to tell me everything. Just…try one thing.” 

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at a patch of flowers growing near the edge of the stone path. Their delicate petals seemed so out of place amidst the structured, meticulous landscaping of the Wayne estate—something small and natural that thrived despite everything.

“Is that…a command?” Damian asked softly, his fingers running over the callouses of his hand, the scars that ran like rivers over his palms. When he stared at them long enough, he could almost smell the scent of burning flesh.

Dick frowned at the question, his brow furrowing as he considered his response. “No, it’s not a command,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime. This is... an invitation. A chance to lighten the load a little.”

Damian’s fingers stilled, his hand falling back to his side as he kept his gaze fixed on the patch of flowers. The sunlight played across their vibrant petals, but the warmth it carried felt distant as if it couldn’t quite reach him.

“Grandfather believed that I should know many ways to dispose of a body. On my missions, my objective was often to eliminate any targets that posed a threat to the League. On one mission, he instructed me to…burn the target’s bodies. A family,” Damian’s eyes flicked to Dick’s instinctively, hoping to spot any residual anger or disgust. But in truth, the man’s eyes were full of great sadness that betrayed his age. “He instructed me to watch. I am…unsure as to why, even now. Perhaps that is part of the reason for his instruction.”

“Damian–”

“The smell. Did you know spinal fluid smells musky? Fat smells like pork. Flesh smells like beef.” His voice was clipped as if he was reciting lines from a scientific article.

Dick’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t look away. His sorrowful gaze remained fixed on Damian, unwavering. The boy wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore. Instead, he stared at the patch of flowers, their vivid colors dimmed under the weight of his words.

“I hated the smell,” Damian continued, his voice still mechanical, as if detaching himself from the memory would make it hurt less. “It clings to you, permeates your clothes, your hair. Even when you bathe, it lingers—an invisible reminder.” He clenched his fist, knuckles turning bone white.

Dick took a slow, deliberate move closer. “You were a child, Damian. You were forced into something no child should ever—”

“It does not matter,” Damian interrupted, his tone sharp but trembling at the edges. “I carried out the orders. And now...now I sit at a table surrounded by people who—” His breath hitched, and he bit down hard on the words he couldn’t finish.

“Who love you,” Dick finished for him, his voice soft yet firm. “Who understand that you’ve been through things that would break most people. And who don’t judge you for surviving.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. When he finally did, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I am... trying. But …I am not like you.” His gaze flicked up to Dick’s face, the guarded walls in his expression cracking just enough to show the pain beneath. “I am not like any of you.”

Dick dropped to a crouch so they were at eye level, his movements slow and unthreatening. “You don’t have to be like us,” he said, his tone steady. “You don’t have to be anything other than Damian. The rest? We’ll figure it out together. You’re not alone in this, no matter how much it feels that way.”

The boy’s face remained impassive, but his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, the tension bleeding out just enough to make room for something softer. He didn’t trust his voice to respond, so he simply nodded, a small, tentative movement that spoke volumes.

Dick gave him a warm, encouraging smile. “You let one thing out. Small steps at a time. And if you stumble, we’re here to catch you.”

Damian looked back to the flowers, their delicate beauty unwavering despite the weight of the conversation. And, the world just felt a little bit lighter.

“You know, the rest of us were discussing you joining us on patrol. For good. Bruce is still mulling it over. But if you… understand the ground rules…” Dick trailed off, patting Damian’s leg.

“If I understand the chain of command, then I will…have an objective?”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about it, Dames, but there’s already talk of a whole new suit for you.” 

Damian’s gaze lingered on the flowers for a moment longer before he straightened slightly, processing Dick’s words. A new suit. A formal place on patrol. The weight of the offer wasn’t lost on him, though he tried to mask the flicker of something that stirred in his chest.

“A suit implies that I will be more than a liability,” Damian said carefully, his voice measured. “That you are entrusting me with a role of responsibility.”

“This is a sort-of…test-run. You’re great at combat, but the speed at which you throw yourself at danger is…worrying.” Dick admitted, scratching his curly black hair. “But, I believe in you.” He gave Damian’s leg a final pat before stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic groan. “Man, I feel old. You’re gonna make me retire early, kiddo.”

“I doubt that,” Damian replied dryly, but there was a faint twitch of his lips, something that might have been a smile if one squinted hard enough.

Dick took a step back, tilting his head toward the manor. “Come on, let’s get out of the sun. I’m sure the others are doing things that are bound to amuse you.”

Damian stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. The world did feel a little lighter, as though the morning air had swept away some unseen burden. He followed Dick toward the house, the faint smell of flowers trailing after him like a whisper of hope.

The quiet hum of the library was Damian’s only companion as he sat at one of the long wooden tables, his posture rigid and his brows furrowed in concentration. Several books lay open in front of him—tomes on martial arts techniques, tactical psychology, and efficiency metrics. His notebook was already half-filled with precise notes and diagrams, his handwriting impossibly neat for someone so young. The sharp scratch of his pencil against the paper was the only sound in the large room.

“Light reading?” Tim’s voice broke through the silence, lighthearted and casual as he leaned against the doorway.

Damian blinked, not breaking eye contact with the textbooks. “Is there something that you require of me?”

“Awww, can’t I hang out with my baby brother?” Tim quirked a smile, hands in his hoodie pockets as he strolled over towards Damian’s position. He glanced at the spread-out materials and wrinkled his nose. “Combat optimization? Really?”

“If I am to be granted the opportunity to patrol, I will not squander it. Father’s faith in me is already tenuous at best. I must ensure there are no mistakes.” Damian flipped to the next page, writing furiously. 

“Write any faster and you might start burning a hole in your paper.” Tim studied the notes for a moment, before taking a seat next to the younger boy. “You know, that’s not exactly how this works. Bruce isn’t testing you to see if you’re perfect. He’s testing to see if you can be part of a team.”

“I am aware of the parameters,” Damian said coolly, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed his frustration. “But I cannot fail. Failure is unacceptable.”

Tim let out a soft sigh, pulling one of the older textbooks closer to continue inspecting it. “I used to think like that too. That I had to be perfect, that I had to prove myself to become Robin. Everyone has. It’s almost like a right of passage for the mask. I thought that if I didn’t measure up if I wasn’t flawless, then I didn’t belong out there. Wanna guess how well that went for me?”

Damian glanced up from his notes, putting down his pencil with curiosity flickering in his sharp eyes.

“Want to hear about the time I sprained my ankle because I tripped over a rooftop vent? Or the time I miscalculated a jump and fell into a dumpster? And let’s not even talk about the number of times I’ve misread a situation and walked right into a trap.”

Damian paused, before raising an eyebrow, “A dumpster?”

Tim sighed, his nose wrinkling as if smelling something foul. “Smelled like rotten Chinese food and shame for hours. The point is I’ve messed up plenty. So has Dick. And Jason. And most definitely Bruce. None of us are perfect.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to his notebook.

“Look, I get it,” Tim continued, leaning forward. “You want to prove yourself. And I know Bruce can make it feel like the bar is impossibly high. But this test-run patrol? It’s not about proving you’re perfect. It’s about showing that you can learn, adapt, and work with us. And yeah, you’re going to make mistakes. That’s part of the job. Part of being human.”

“Will it all still matter if I jeopardize the mission?” Damian asked after a long pause.

“Then we handle it,” Tim said simply. “That’s what a team does. We’ve got your back, Damian. All you have to do is show up and trust us to do the same.”

Damian paused, before closing the textbook softly. “I will…take this into consideration.”

“Fair enough.” Tim stood, clapping a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go grab something from the kitchen. You can tell me more about this ‘optimization’ plan of yours. Maybe I’ll even have some ideas.”

Damian hesitated, then nodded, rising to follow Tim out of the library, ignoring a flare of pain. It had lessened but hadn’t dulled.

As they walked into the kitchen, the pain in Damian’s ribs and back was like a constant thrum, a reminder of the injuries he’d sustained during his last training session. He didn’t let it show, keeping his stride purposeful and his expression neutral. Tim, however, seemed to notice the stiffness in Damian’s movements.

“Still sore?” Tim asked, his voice casual but laced with concern as he opened the fridge and started rummaging through its contents.

“It’s nothing,” Damian replied curtly, leaning against the counter. His arms crossed over his chest, shielding himself from the concern he didn’t think he deserved. “Pain is part of the process. I can endure it.”

Tim grabbed a couple of water bottles and a container of leftover pasta, setting them on the counter. “Yeah, pain’s part of the job. But ignoring it? That’s how you end up on the sidelines for weeks instead of days. We can always wait for later.” Tim offered softly, rolling the bottle towards Damian.

Damian shook his head, taking the water bottle but not opening it. “I do not require rest. Progress waits for no one,” he replied curtly, though there was a slight waver in his tone as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Tim.

Before Tim could respond, Jason entered the kitchen, a shit-eating grin already plastered across his face. “Having fun without me? I’m hurt,” Jason declared, mock-pouting as he strolled in. Without missing a beat, he roughly rubbed Tim’s hair, messing up the carefully pushed-down curls.

“Dude–” Tim started, shoving Jason’s hand off his head and attempting to smooth his hair back down with the palms of his hands. His annoyed tone only made Jason grin wider.

“What have you been up to? Resting, obviously,” Jason added, eyeing Damian once over.

Damian scowled, standing a little straighter despite the ache in his ribs. “I do not squander my time lounging about.”

Jason snorted, leaning casually against the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a little workaholic, we all know it. But seriously, kid, you look like you got run over by the Batmobile. You sure you’re not pushing it too hard?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Damian snapped, his tone defensive. He crossed his arms over his chest, the motion pulling uncomfortably at his sore muscles, though he refused to show it.

“Right, ‘perfectly fine,’” Jason drawled, clearly unconvinced. He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, taking a swig straight from the container before Tim smacked his arm.

“Gross, Jason! Use a glass!” Tim protested, glaring at him.

“If it pisses Bruce off, it’s so worth it,” he smiled, making an effort to lick the inside of the cap, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Are you five?” Tim snapped, reaching out to snatch the carton away, but Jason held it out of reach, laughing.

“Relax, Replacement. You can have the next sip,” Jason teased, taking another swig to annoy Tim further.

Damian let out a soft, exasperated huff, watching the interaction with irritation and reluctant amusement. “Your behavior is disgraceful,” he muttered, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Jason winked at Damian. “Disgraceful is just another word for fun, little D. You’ll learn someday.” He capped the carton with a flourish, leaving it conspicuously on the counter before strolling to the door. “You two enjoy your little hangout. I’m off to see what other things I can do to piss off the ol’ batsy.”

Tim groaned, snatching the carton and tossing it into the recycling. “I don’t know how Alfred hasn’t smothered him in his sleep.”

“Perhaps Alfred has more patience than the rest of us,” Damian replied, his lips twitching ever so slightly as if fighting back a smirk.

Tim noticed and nudged him lightly. “See? You’re learning. Sometimes it’s okay to laugh at the chaos.”

Damian pushed open the door to his room, a book tucked under one arm, a recommendation from Tim, only to stop dead in his tracks. Jason was standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the sparse furnishings and plain décor with an expression of deep disapproval.

“Is there..something that you require from my room?” Damian asked, his voice laced with suspicion as he set his book on the desk.

“No, no. Actually yes. I was going to stop by and check in, but got distracted by this prison cel– I mean, your room.” Jason smirked, staring at the cream walls and eyeing the katana on the dresser. 

“I do not see the use for frivolities. In the League, simplicity meant–” 

“Yeah, in the League you lived in a small room under the stairs on Number 4, Privet Drive. The point still stands that there’s nothing personal in here. Bet if you asked Bruce, he’d ship a whole foosball table in here.” Jason turned around as if expecting something to materialize on the wall. “I mean, not even a poster, or even a fucking plant. If you want some, I have a pothos that is outgrowing my bathroom.”

“It would be…unnecessary. I am simply…a person in this household. My room serves its purpose,” Damian frowned.

“Yeah, you’re killing me in here, kid. If I stare at these white walls–”

“Cream.” Damian corrected.

“ –Cream walls any longer, I’m gonna start hallucinating colors. How about this, we take Bruce’s credit card while he’s off doing fuck-what, and start by adding some things to your room?”

“Shopping?” Damian asked, his tone dripping with disdain. “It would not be an efficient use of—”

“Too bad, you’re coming,” Jason interrupted, grabbing Damian by the arm and steering him toward the door. “Bruce’s money isn’t gonna spend itself, and I’m itching to blow it on something ridiculous. Do you think Bruce would appreciate a huge metallic bean in his room or something?”

“This is not needed,” Damian protested, trying to dig his heels in, though Jason’s larger frame made it a losing battle. “I do not require new clothing or frivolous decorations.”

“You’re not getting a choice, kid,” Jason said cheerfully, ignoring Damian’s protests as they made their way down the hall. “Consider it a bonding experience. And hey, maybe you’ll find something you actually like.”

Damian glared up at him, his jaw tightening. “If this is your attempt at humor—”

“It’s not,” Jason interrupted again, giving him a lopsided grin. “It’s my attempt at getting you to stop living like you’re allergic to Ikea. Trust me, this is gonna be fun.”

As they headed toward the garage, Damian allowed himself a long-suffering sigh.

Damian stood in front of the mirror in a small fitting room, staring at the various clothes Jason had insisted he try on. The options seemed endless, and a sense of confusion was quickly overtaking him. Shirts, jackets, pants, and shoes—each piece of clothing felt foreign to him as if it were some kind of costume rather than something meant to reflect who he was .

Damian blinked at himself in the mirror, frowning as he pulled on a burgundy hoodie. It was his perfect size, a reasonable price, and the texture was soft enough for most civilian activities. Damian knew he was expected to form an opinion about the article of clothing, but nothing swirled in his heart.

Jason knocked on the dressing room door before Damian stepped out, squiring in the hoodie as if it was slowly consuming him. “So kid, how do you feel? Ready to show the world Gotham’s ‘Best Dressed Vigilante’?”

Damian looked down at the garment, a frown forming on his face. Even getting the clothing on was a test for his pain tolerance, but he had hoped it would surmise something. But Damian had quickly realized that he didn’t even know what he liked. He had followed commands, and directives. It gave him purpose. But the commands didn’t give him favorite foods, or extracurriculars. If Jason expected him to have an opinion, Damian would hate to disappoint him.

“Do you…want me to like it?” Damian asked, head flicking up to watch Jason’s reaction. Jason’s face contorted and he shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Hey, I’m uninvolved in this process. The real question is about you.” 

Damian blinked, biting the inside of his cheek as if still processing the statement. He knew, logically, it did not matter what he chose. Jason would still compliment the clothing, and he could just return to the manor. Damian’s mind flicked back to a new potential patrol.

“This is adequate. Let this excursion end.” Damian stepped back into the room, about to close the door when Jason’s hand softly pushed it open.

“Hey,” Jason’s voice was softer now, lacking its usual teasing edge. “It’s not about it being adequate , Dames. It’s about you figuring out what you like. And if you don’t know yet, that’s okay. We’ve got time.”

Damian froze his hand still on the door. He didn’t turn to face Jason, but the faintest crease appeared between his brows. “Clothing is merely a necessity. Functionality is what matters. Anything else is… superfluous.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other, watching Damian with easy patience. “Yeah, that’s the practical side of it. But clothes can also make you feel something—like confidence or comfort. Or, I don’t know, like yourself. The thing is, you’ve spent so much time being told who to be, what to wear, what to like. This? It’s about figuring out what you want, no one else.”

Damian blinked before frustration started to build in his chest. Why did everyone ask what Damian wanted? They constantly asked, with pity in their eyes, as if Damian couldn’t complete the one, simple task they asked for. “Yes. I like it.” He said sharply, before removing Jason’s hand and quickly closing the door.

He huffed, feeling his breath quicken as he threw off the hoodie. Damian paced the small fitting room, the discarded hoodie crumpled on the bench beside him. His chest felt tight, frustration bubbling beneath his carefully constructed composure. Why did everyone insist on making this so complicated ? It was just clothing. A series of fabrics stitched together. He had made far more difficult decisions in his life—life-or-death choices, tactical calls in the heat of battle—and yet, this seemingly simple task felt insurmountable.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection felt foreign, an imposter wearing clothes that didn’t mean anything to him. The truth was, he didn’t know what he liked. He didn’t know how to like something. Every choice he’d ever made had been guided by necessity, efficiency, or the expectations of others. What was left when those were stripped away?

A soft knock on the door broke his spiraling thoughts. “Hey, kid,” Jason’s voice came through, calm but with a touch of concern. “You don’t have to come out yet, but...you okay in there?”

Damian exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. He didn’t answer right away, but Jason didn’t press. The silence between them was almost reassuring in its patience.

“I don’t understand why this matters so much,” Damian finally said, his voice quieter, edged with frustration he couldn’t completely hide. “Why does everyone care what I choose? It doesn’t change anything.”

“It may not change anything for you, but it means that you’re building a life outside of just patrol and training and commands.” Jason’s voice was muffled by the wooden door, but there was a softness to it. “This is a way of making your life…your own.”

Damian shook his head as if trying to expel Jason’s words from his mind. Damian did not have a life, not the way others did. His targets had lives. His…comrades had lives. But Damian? He liked following commands. He liked having people tell him what to do and how to do it. 

He quickly pulled on his black shirt, an old one of Tim’s, ignoring the strain on his ribs. He quickly opened the door, pulling the Burgundy hoodie close to his chest. “Let us leave,” Damian added hastily.

Jason opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, following behind Damian as he bought the item. The boy almost bolted out of the door as soon as the transaction was over, his breaths getting quicker and quicker.

Jason followed Damian outside, the quiet shuffle of his boots on the tile contrasting with the boy's hastened footsteps. Once they were clear of the store, Damian stopped abruptly on the sidewalk, his chest heaving as he struggled to regulate his breathing. Jason paused a few steps behind him, watching carefully but giving the kid space.

Damian whipped his head up, eyes narrowed, and his chest rising and falling in quick succession, like he was an animal in a trap. “I do not understand this…insistence. Is everything I do wrong? Must you all correct me? Am I…Is my behavior not up to your liking?” Damian’s voice was sharp, cracked. As if someone had carved his voice down the middle, cutting away all that was human.

Jason froze for a moment, Damian's words hitting him harder than he’d expected. The kid's voice carried more than just frustration—it was raw, like the edges of a wound still too fresh to heal. Damian stood there, trembling slightly, fists clenched at his sides, and Jason could see it now: this wasn’t about a hoodie or a shopping trip. It was about something deeper, something that had been building for a long time.

Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair before taking a cautious step closer. “Damian,” he said, his tone soft but steady. “No one’s saying you’re doing anything wrong. This isn’t about correcting you. It’s about… giving you the chance to figure out what you want. Not what Ra’s wanted, not what Bruce wants, not what anyone else expects. Just you.”

“Enough. If there is something about my behavior that bothers you, please just tell me,” Damian’s voice had dropped to a low whisper, hands curling around the hoodie. “If not…let us go home.” 

Jason’s mouth had suddenly dried up, and he felt his heart squeeze painfully. He had forced the kid too quickly, and tried to get him to become more ‘normal’. But, it had all come too quickly. Jason felt the weight of Damian's words hit him square in the chest, each syllable heavy with exhaustion and vulnerability. The kid wasn’t just frustrated; he was overwhelmed, cornered by expectations he didn’t understand and wasn’t ready to face. Jason had pushed too hard, too fast, and now Damian was retreating behind the only defense he knew—compliance.

Jason exhaled deeply, his shoulders dropping as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Damian,” he started, his voice quieter now, softer. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to make you feel like this. You’re not doing anything wrong, and there’s nothing about you that bothers me. I just wanted to give you a chance to—” He paused, searching for the right words. “To be a kid. To figure stuff out without anyone breathing down your neck.”

Damian’s expression didn’t change, but his hands curled to fists, knuckles white. “I am not a child. I am a soldier. Just…if you have no criticism or evaluation to add, let us leave this place.” His body language was taught, like the string of a bow. His green eyes were blown up, and Jason realized that nothing he said would make it past his walls. The walls were sky-high and imperceptible. If he wanted to make up for the kid, he could do it later.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go home, kid.” Jason said softly. Damian sharply nodded, turning on his heel and briskly walking to the car.

Jason sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he watched Damian march ahead, his posture rigid, every movement precise and calculated. The kid’s words echoed in his head— “I am a soldier.” It wasn’t just something Damian said; it was how he lived . The boy didn’t know how to exist outside of orders, outside of missions. And Jason? He’d just accidentally reminded Damian of that.

Jason didn’t follow immediately, giving Damian a moment of space as he strode toward the car. The kid was wound so tight, Jason thought, it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped under the pressure yet. But that tension, that constant need to prove himself, wasn’t sustainable. Not for a kid. Not for anyone.

By the time Jason caught up, Damian was already standing by the passenger door, arms crossed and eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at him. Jason opened his mouth to say something— anything —but then thought better of it. Now wasn’t the time to push. Instead, he unlocked the car and climbed in, waiting until Damian did the same before starting the engine.

The drive back was silent, the air thick with unspoken tension. Jason glanced over at Damian once or twice, catching the boy’s stony expression and the slight twitch of his fingers against his thigh. The hoodie was on Damian’s lap now, clutched tightly like it was the only thing grounding him.

Jason didn’t try to break the silence. Instead, he let the quiet ride out, hoping that maybe, once they were back home, Damian would feel a little less like the world was closing in on him. And if not? Jason would find another way to remind the kid that he didn’t have to be a soldier all the time—that he didn’t have to be alone.

When they arrived home, Damian almost lept out of the car, reaching for the car door to shut it before he hesitated. “I…apologize for my outburst. It was not necessary nor an efficient use of time.” 

Jason turned off the car and leaned back in his seat, watching Damian through the gap as the kid stood by the car door, stiff and uncertain. The apology hung in the air, awkward and formal, like Damian wasn’t entirely sure how to say the words but felt obligated to try anyway.

Jason got out of the car slowly, taking a moment to stretch before walking around to Damian’s side. “Hey,” he said, voice calm but firm. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? You’re allowed to have feelings, Damian. You’re allowed to get upset, frustrated, confused—whatever. You don’t have to justify it, and you definitely don’t have to call it ‘inefficient.’”

Damian blinked as if processing the words slowly. Jason gave him time, observing the kid’s face as it morphed through a sleuth of emotions. “...everyone tells me my thinking is incorrect. That is the result of my experience. That I should not think this, or that,” Damian’s voice was barely above a whisper, his face turned towards the floor. “Why is that?”

Jason sighed, almost wishing for Dick to materialize next to him and take over. Jason wasn’t great with this stuff, emotions, and knowing the right thing to say to people. “Because we care. It’s not because…you’re wrong. But sometimes, we learn things that hurt us.” 

The boy didn’t react, but his shoulders slumped as if giving up. Then, all of a sudden, Jason pulled him into his arms, cradling his head. The boy stiffened, as if waiting for an attack, but buried his head into Jason’s chest.

Jason held Damian firmly, feeling the boy’s rigid frame pressed against him. Damian’s body remained stiff, like a coiled spring, his small hands balled into tight fists against Jason’s jacket. He didn’t move, didn’t lean in, as if unsure what to do, but he also didn’t pull away. Jason could feel the sharp edges of Damian’s guardedness, the walls he’d spent his short life building, resisting the comfort being offered.

For a moment, Jason’s throat tightened. He blinked hard, forcing back the sudden sting in his eyes. Damian wasn’t just stiff; he was trembling slightly, as though the effort to hold himself together was starting to crack under the weight of everything unspoken between them. Jason’s hand came up, hesitating for just a second before resting gently on the back of Damian’s head. He smoothed his gloved palm down, his fingers brushing through the kid’s dark hair in a slow, calming motion.

He didn’t say anything—he couldn’t. Words would only get tangled in his chest. Instead, he held Damian tighter, anchoring the boy against him like he could shield him from all the ghosts clawing at his back. The tension in Damian’s shoulders didn’t melt away entirely, but Jason felt the faintest sag, the smallest moment where Damian let go of whatever armor he was gripping so tightly.

And finally, the boy’s shoulders relaxed and Jason could finally hug his brother.

Chapter Text

Damian sat on the beams above the Batcave, observing as the others prepared for patrol. His legs dangled off the steel beams as he casually tossed a dagger above, feeling the wind rush through his ears and the breeze sending chills down his spine. 

Dick sat casually on the hood of the Batmobile, his legs swinging slightly as he clicked away at his phone. He was grinning faintly, probably responding to some joke or message, his lighthearted presence an odd contrast to the cavernous, somber atmosphere of the cave.

Jason leaned against the far wall, one leg bent with his boot resting against the surface. His arms were crossed loosely, but his gaze flickered occasionally toward Damian. His expression was hard to read, a mixture of something soft and guarded—an emotion Damian couldn’t name. A partially disassembled gun sat on the table next to Jason, its pieces gleaming under the cave’s dim lighting, waiting for him to resume work.

Tim sat in a chair near a command center, secretly reading a book in his lap, his face deep in thought. Damian recognized the book from their conversation after lunch, when they had returned to the library after Damian had commented on the importance of continual research of one’s combat.

His father began to spiel about the mission, the logistics, and updates regarding some mercenaries captured the other night. Normally, Damian would force himself to listen and affirm his standing among the squad. There was a small urge in his chest to prove his worth, to reaffirm that he was ready for patrol, that it wasn’t a mistake for him to follow along. And quietly, the urge to ask for something to do. 

But all he could think about was the physical interaction with Jason, the arms around his body, the way they had lingered in the garage for what felt like an eternity. When he thought back, it made his chest feel warm, like a hot syrup was poured all over his rib cage.

“Damian?” Bruce asked, glancing at his son’s shadowy figure. Bruce’s voice cut through the haze, sharp but not unkind. The older man glanced up at his son’s shadowy figure on the beam, his expression unreadable but expectant. 

Damian climbed down nimbly, to Jason’s amusement. He stood, hands clasped behind him. His gaze attempted to linger on the white-haired man, but he remained right before his commander. His father. “Yes?”

Bruce grunted, clicking away the maps of a nearby trafficking ring and leaning against the control center. “You understand what is expected of you tonight?” He asked, his voice harsh as gravel.

Damian blinked before nodding, and he could feel everyone’s attention being drawn. Tim set down his book, his forearms resting on his knees, and Dick placed his phone on a nearby table, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“You are to stay here.” Bruce got up, hesitating before walking past Damian and into the Batmobile. Everyone blinked at each other before walking past him, not before ruffling his hair, patting his shoulder, or elbowing him softly.

Damian turned around and watched them all leave. And it was fine . As the hum of the Batmobile’s engine faded into the distance, the Batcave fell into an eerie quiet. The echo of boots on stone, the occasional shuffle of equipment, and the vibrant energy that had filled the space were all gone, leaving Damian standing alone amidst the cavern’s vastness.

He remained rooted in place momentarily, his gaze lingering on the now-empty exit. His hands, still clasped behind his back, tightened briefly before releasing. The stillness felt oppressive, the weight of being left behind pressing heavily on his chest. He exhaled sharply, almost as if trying to dispel the feeling entirely.

With deliberate steps, Damian walked back to the beams above the cave, climbing them as easily as a shadow slipping through the dark. He returned to the same spot where he had sat earlier, his legs dangling off the edge.

Damian hated waiting and the in-between moments of action. It was the inhale of breath before a fight, the hesitation of being punched, the moment before a finger pulled on a trigger. Damian wished that anyone had told him what to do, given him…something.

He sighed, laying against the steel beams, catching a dagger before laying it across his chest. Faintly, he could hear the crackle of electricity.

Idle hands are of no service to me.

Damian blinked, before shaking his head, sitting up and feeling his ribs bark in protest. His spine ached, but he refused to do anything while the others were out. And so, he trained.

If he could train with the dull ache of his body, ie could fight the next patrol. So, with his sword, he ducked and sliced. He dove, rolled, kicked, and stabbed. As beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and as the roar in his body grew louder and louder, he continued to train.

The Batcave was quiet, save for the relentless sound of Damian’s fists pounding into a worn training dummy. His strikes were methodical yet furious, the precision that came only from years of conditioning. Sweat dripped from his brow as his small frame shook under the weight of exhaustion, yet he kept going.

Persist .

Damian’s muscles screamed at him as he pulled himself up from the icy cliffside. His fingers had long since lost sensation and the roar of snow in his ears was only satiated by the roar of his blood. When he pulled himself up, he could only half-remember throwing up blood onto the white snow.

Pursue .

The man ran, blood seeping from his arm as Damian pursued after him. In a moment, a rapier laced with the world’s deadliest neurotoxin was pulled from his belt and only barely lacerated the man’s upper arm. He crumpled to the ground instantly, staining the mansion’s wooden floors. Damian did not wait to see if he got up.

Prevail .

Damian’s blade clashed against the assassin’s, sparks flying in the dimly lit arena as he twisted sharply to evade a fatal strike. He drove his opponent off balance, seizing the opening to plunge his sword cleanly through their chest. As the assassin fell, Damian stood tall, blood dripping from his blade, and trying to erase the girl’s name from his mind.

Damian stood in the oppressive silence of the Batcave, his breathing steady but shallow as he wiped a line of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The echoes of his strikes against the dummy still reverberated faintly in the cavern, mingling with the faint hum of the Batcomputer. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from the lingering adrenaline that refused to dissipate. He flexed his fingers, testing their strength, his knuckles raw and tinged red.

The mantra reverberated in his mind, a constant thrum. Each memory, every trial that Damian had endured, replayed in his mind. It all felt like yesterday to him. 

“Master Damian,” Alfred’s voice cut softly through the stillness, carrying its usual blend of formality and concern. The old butler stood at the base of the Batcave stairs, a tray balanced in his hands with surgical precision. On it sat a glass of electrolytes and a small plate of his favorite fruit—though he would never admit they were his favorite.

Damian straightened but didn’t turn, his posture rigid as if trying to hide the tremor in his hands. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, his voice steadier than his fingers. 

“Of course you are,” Alfred replied, his tone unruffled as he descended the stairs with measured steps. He set the tray down on a nearby console, his movements deliberate, as if giving Damian time to decide whether to continue the conversation. “But even the finest swords must rest before they are honed further.”

Damian walked off the training mat, attempting to keep the trembling in his legs as he sat. He reached into the bowl of pomegranate seeds and popped some in his mouth, relishing how they crunched with bursts of sweetness and tartness. 

“I understand you are eager to prove yourself. But your father and brothers will not be back for some time. It would be wise to freshen up and give yourself a good night's sleep.” Alfred added, walking behind Damian.

Damian’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching briefly before he released them with a sigh. Without a word, he moved toward the tray Alfred had brought, picking up the glass of water. He drank in silence, his gaze never leaving the flickering screens of the Batcomputer.

Alfred watched him for a moment longer before stepping back. “Should you require anything else, you need only ask,” his voice sharp before retreating up the stairs, leaving Damian alone once more.

As the butler’s footsteps faded, Damian set the empty glass down and returned to the training area. The mantra still thrummed in his mind, steady and unrelenting: Persist. Pursue. Prevail.

He picked up his training sword again, his strikes against the dummy resuming with renewed precision. The waiting, the stillness, would not break him. It would only make him sharper.

The silence was only broken by a groan. Damian’s eyes flickered toward the entrance just as Tim staggered in, his hand clutching his stomach and his face pale. Without hesitation, Damian was at his side, his hands steady as he guided Tim to a nearby cot, his eyes scanning the younger man for any signs of more severe injury.

“Fuck, can’t a guy just get one day off without repeated attempts to his life?” he smiled, but it looked strained.

Damian knelt beside him, his brow furrowed in concern, though he didn’t let it show on his face. “You are injured,” Damian said softly, peeling Tim’s gloved hand back to reveal a long gash along his stomach which bled sluggishly onto his uniform. It was a deep cut and there was a worrying amount of blood already soaked into the kevlar. “Did you not call for backup?” his voice came out harsh, but Damian ignored it, grabbing a first-aid kit and packing his wound with gauze.

“I was pretty close to here. Besides, the others are all busy today. Knew that you’d probably be here though,” Tim eyed the sliced mannequin, groaning as Damian pushed his wound harder, peeling away the uniform. The blood congealed and Tim bit back a whimper. 

“You require stitches,” Damian informed him, ignoring the shakiness in his voice. He should have been with them. If he had gone with them today, perhaps Tim would not be in this position. 

It should have been Damian in this cot.

Damian worked quickly, his hands precise as he carefully cleaned the wound and prepped the area for stitching. The tension between them hung in the air, thick and suffocating, but Tim’s voice still managed to break through.

“Thanks, Doc McStuffins,” Tim said with a weak laugh, though it quickly turned into a grimace as Damian tightened the stitches.

Damian’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he hesitated, his needle hovering mid-air. "This is not a joking matter. If you had come here any later—," he stopped, his voice clipped. "I have to fix this."

Tim opened his mouth to answer, but quickly took a shallow breath of pain as Damian’s needle punctured his skin once more. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Tim shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the sharp pull of the stitches made him wince. “I didn’t want to bother anyone… but I guess I made a mistake.” His voice was laced with a hint of self-deprecation, but the words seemed to hang in the air, almost too heavy to bear.

As Damian finished up the stitches, he felt a pressure on his chest. He carefully wrapped the wound in bandages, ignoring the way that Tim’s legs pushed against the cot as he lifted the boy, pulling at the stitches’ seams.

Tim shifted on the cot, wincing as the bandages were wrapped too tightly. Damian didn’t give him any comfort. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to, and any softness felt... foreign. Tim groaned, the sound sharp and raw, but Damian didn’t flinch. His hands continued their work without hesitation, but the quiet pressure on his chest didn’t ease.

“You tell me that we are a team. That we will always ‘be there’ for one another. Yet, you come in, no call for backup.” Damian said sharply, meeting the boy’s eyes. 

Tim blinked, suddenly caught off-guard by the boy’s gaze. “I…You’re right,” he admitted softly, staring up at the ceiling of the Batcave. “It’s easy for me to say these things to you, and then…do something like this. I know it’s hypocritical. I know.” 

The boy looked solemn for a moment, and Damian felt something curl in his chest. It was as if something had wormed its way into the cavity and started to squeeze.  It wasn’t discomfort or anger; it was something... deeper. He didn’t know how to name it, but it lodged like a splinter.

“Sometimes, I think that Bruce is going to throw me away. Like, he’s going to realize that I’m only here because I asked to be here. Insisted he needed me. He didn’t choose me like he did Jason or Dick.” Tim’s voice was so low, it was almost like a confession. As if Damian wasn’t there at all, and was merely talking to himself. 

Damian’s hand faltered as he finished wrapping Tim’s wound. The words caught him off guard, but more than that, they rang familiar. Damian had always resulted from an obligation, an afterthought, not a decision made out of care. It was the cruelest of ironies that the only place he could remember feeling wanted was in a world where emotional attachment was a dangerous game.

Damian looked away, feeling the pressure inside his chest intensify. Burdening people. He knew that feeling. He’d felt that way his entire life. Alone. Separate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—he was supposed to push people away, not… care. He should be unaffected.

“He did choose. He chooses every day.” Damian said simply. He was not like the others. Emotions and discussions of one’s burden were not like training where one could practice over time. But Tim stiffened, and for a moment, Damian wished to take his words back. To return to swords and death, not to a place where hurting someone suddenly felt all too sour.

There was a pause, and Tim craned to look at Damian. His eyes softened, and for a fleeting second, there was a quiet understanding between them. Tim’s hand rested gently on the top of Damian’s head, fingers curling into his black hair with an ease that took Damian completely by surprise. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away.

And for the first time, there was no rush of fear. There is no expectation of sudden pain. 

“You’re a good brother,” Tim said, his voice a soft murmur. It wasn’t a compliment Damian was used to hearing. It wasn’t a compliment he wanted to hear if he was being honest. He didn’t know what to do with it. But it was there, pressing against the space between them, as real as the warmth in Tim’s hand.

Damian’s breath hitched slightly, but he said nothing. He couldn’t. Not with the tightness in his chest. Not with the weight of words that didn’t quite feel like his own.

Instead, he sat back and looked at Tim— really looked at him—for the first time. The boy who insisted on belonging, even when the world around him seemed to reject that. 

The weight of Tim’s words hung in the air like a lingering fog, but Damian didn’t have the chance to respond further. The shift in atmosphere between them was subtle but undeniable, and for a moment, the tension seemed to dissipate. Instead, there was something else—something almost comforting, like a shared understanding without the need for more words.

Tim, sensing the change, broke the silence with a quiet sigh. “You know, I’ve been reading this old combat manual Bruce has in his library,” he said, glancing over at Damian with a small, almost mischievous smile. “It’s ancient. Full of techniques from all over the world. Some of it’s kind of... ridiculous.”

Damian glanced upward, his focus shifting from the weight of their earlier conversation to the new direction Tim was taking. The idea of an old combat manual didn’t seem like something Bruce would keep around for no reason. He wasn’t particularly interested in the idea of old martial arts styles, but the mention of something Bruce hadn’t specifically shown him was enough to pique his curiosity.

“Do you believe that this manual will help to stop injuries such as yours?” Damian asked innocently, although the glint in his emerald eyes told Tim otherwise.

"Not really," Tim answered, but his tone was playful, one that acknowledged the challenge in Damian's words. He leaned back a little, crossed his arms, and tilted his head as he watched Damian. "This is Bruce we're talking about. He's into everything, even stuff that looks like it’s from another century. But the book... it’s more about the philosophy behind it than the moves themselves."

“Explain.” Damian sat down next to the cot, hands playing with the dagger that had once been stowed away in his utility belt.

“Bruce and, I guess, the others including me, believe there’s more to fighting than just moves. It’s the emotion behind it. When you value the life of the person you’re fighting against, or your own life, it makes each move count just a little bit more.” Tim added, sliding up in his cot with a wince. 

Damian raised an eyebrow, frowning. “Does that all matter even if one ends up succeeding?”

“To some, yes. It’s the choice to fight for the right reasons. Not because you’re forced to. Not because it’s the only thing you know. But because you’re fighting for something more. Something bigger than yourself.” Tim’s gaze was distant as if he was looking towards the edge of the cave for an answer. 

Damian blinked, turning Tim’s words over in his head. When he fought, he did it because someone asked. There was no obligation behind each strike, or belief system when he broke a target’s nose. It was just a series of reflexes, the same way that others breathed, Damian killed. It was as easy as blinking; he never reflected on it. He simply completed the mission and moved on to the next.

Tim smiled at him, giving the boy space to process the conversation. Dick had told him of Damian’s unique fighting abilities; he was a world’s away from most adults and Tim at that age. While he was busy hacking into corporations, Damian was busy slicing a target’s throat. But he had only fought because of another force. Not because he wanted to. And that changed things.

“If I were to…obtain this manual from the Library, along with other books, would you provide me with an evaluation?” Damian asked haltingly as if he were about to prepare for a lecture or for Tim to begin criticizing him.

“Please do,” Tim smiled. Damian nodded curtly and rose, briskly walking out of the cave. Tim knew that there was so much work to do; habits that needed to be broken, coping mechanisms that needed to be addressed in a conversation.

But for now, Tim was okay with this.

The distant sound of the Batmobile rolling into the cave signaled the end of a long, grueling patrol. Jason was the first out, tugging off his helmet and running a hand through his sweat-matted hair, muttering something under his breath about Gotham’s freaks. Dick followed, looking just as tired but somehow still managing a grin as he peeled off his domino mask. Bruce came in last, his usual stoic demeanor unchanged, though his sharp eyes scanned the cave, his mind already assessing the situation.

Tim wasn’t at the computer.

“Where’s Tim?” Bruce’s voice carried a note of concern, subtle but enough to make Jason glance over sharply.

“I thought he’d be at the console,” Dick said, frowning.

Jason dropped his helmet on the table, his brow furrowing. “He better not have passed out in a safehouse again. Kid doesn’t know when to quit.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ll check the surveillance logs. If he didn’t make it back—”

“Wait,” Dick said, holding up a hand. His head tilted toward the sound of voices coming from the far side of the cave. “Is that…?”

The trio followed the sound, moving past the training area and into a corner where two familiar figures sat, seemingly oblivious to the world around them.

Tim was sprawled on a cot, his bandaged torso visible where his shirt had been discarded. His injuries, though cleaned and stitched, still looked raw, and the faintest hint of dried blood on the bandages made Bruce’s stomach twist. But Tim didn’t seem to be in pain. He was sitting up slightly, a book in hand, his expression relaxed, even animated.

“You seriously think that this…spinning kick is going to add variety in your moves?” Tim laughed, clutching his stomach as Damian’s face morphed into a frown. Despite his expression, there was a lightness in Damian’s shoulders that betrayed his face.

“Variety is ‘the spice of life’ as you said earlier. Hence, research may need to go further than our modern day standards.” 

Tim snorted, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?” His voice was warm, the kind of teasing that felt natural, not forced.

Damian reached for a small bowl on the desk beside him, carefully plucking a slice of apple. Without hesitation, he handed it to Tim in a smooth motion before picking up a small bunch of grapes for himself.

“Am I hallucinating…or is Tim having fun with Damian… before me?” Dick asked, his face twisted like he tasted something sour. 

Jason raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over his chest. “Looks like it,” he muttered, equal parts amused and jealous. “I guess you’re not his favorite brother after all, Goldie.”

Bruce remained silent, his mask off as he took in the scene in front of him. He had been informed by Jason, after he had prodded about the several transactions of his credit card, about the incident with Damian. But somehow, the two had connected. A smile found its way onto his face, the events of patrol fading into the background.

“You know, for someone who claims to hate wasting time, you’re really taking this ‘spice of life’ thing seriously.” Tim smiled, biting into the apple and patting Damian’s shoulders. He flinched slightly, but his mouth had a slight quirk to it.

Damian huffed, though there was no malice in it. “Efficiency is paramount, but I see no harm in applying creative approaches to improve my technique.” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly before he added in a quieter tone, “And it’s not a waste of time if it yields results.”

Tim sighed, smiling softly as he added, “Okay fine. I’ll let you win this time. Just as long as you tell me about this kick next patrol.”

“Alright, alright, I can’t take this,” Dick muttered, his cheeks rosy. “H–” 

Bruce gripped his shoulder, shaking his head with a grunt. “Let them have it,” Bruce finally said, his voice low. He turned and began walking back toward the main area of the Batcave, his cape trailing softly behind him.

Jason arched a brow. “Seriously? You’re just gonna let them have their little book club?”

Bruce glanced back, his expression unreadable. “They need it,” he said simply.

Jason and Dick exchanged a glance before trailing after him.

In the quiet corner, Damian tilted his head, his sharp eyes briefly darting toward the now-empty hallway before returning to Tim. His expression didn’t change, but the faintest flicker of something—awareness, perhaps—crossed his face.

Tim smirked. “You knew they were watching, didn’t you?”

Damian reached for another apple slice, his voice calm and measured. “Observation is a necessary skill.”

Tim chuckled, his tone light. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, ‘spice of life.’”

As the elevator to the Manor ascended, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Jason’s playful smirk faded as he noticed the grim set of Bruce’s jaw. Dick exchanged a knowing look with him, sensing the weight of what was about to come.

Bruce didn’t waste time when they reached the dining room. He strode to the head of the table, his cowl still pushed back but his face as unyielding as stone. Once seated, he folded his hands and glanced at each of them.

“Things are escalating,” Bruce began, his tone grave. “The mercenaries and small-time criminals we’ve encountered over the past few days aren’t just getting bolder—they’re becoming more violent. Their methods are more aggressive, and their targets are no longer just opportunistic. They’re strategic.”

Dick leaned against the counter, grabbing a protein bar and ripping it open, “They’re either desperate, fanatic, or both. Not a great combo if you ask me. And not a great combination for our bodies either,” he added, glancing at Jason’s bruised and battered face.

“They’ve been targeting critical infrastructure,” Bruce continued. “Power grids, water supplies, even shipments tied to medical aid. Small hits with big consequences.”

Jason scoffed, leaning forward. “Sounds like someone’s pulling their strings. This isn’t the usual Gotham riffraff trying to make a quick buck.”

“I thought so too,” Bruce admitted. “But there’s no clear pattern yet. No common employer, no overlapping connections.”

“What about the weapons they’re using?” Dick asked. “Some of the stuff we’ve seen out there isn’t standard issue for your average thug.”

Bruce nodded. “Advanced, even military-grade equipment. We’ve recovered a few pieces, and I’ve started tracing the suppliers. Lucius is helping, but it’s slow-going. Whoever’s distributing these weapons knows how to cover their tracks.”

Jason leaned back, his boots resting on the edge of the table. “And let me guess: it’s not just the gear that’s new—it’s their attitude. The last guy I fought didn’t flinch when I disarmed him. He tried to go for my throat with his teeth.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Bruce said, his eyes narrowing. “They’re not just better equipped; they’re more ruthless. These aren’t the type of criminals who flee when they see the Bat-Signal”

Dick frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not a great mix. And if there’s no pattern, no obvious leader, then it’s harder to get ahead of them.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted to Jason. “Which is why we have to be careful. You can’t let your guard down, not even for a second. These people won’t hesitate to kill you—or anyone else in their way.”

Jason met his gaze evenly. “Don’t worry about me, B. I’m not the one getting stitched up in the cave.”

The jab was sharp, but it carried an undercurrent of concern. Bruce’s eyes softened briefly before he looked at Dick.

“I want you and Barbara to dig deeper into the data we’ve gathered. Focus on the financial trails—someone’s paying for all of this.”

Dick nodded. “Got it. I’ll loop in Babs tonight.”

“And Tim?” Jason interjected, raising an eyebrow. “Are we gonna talk about him ignoring protocol? Because if he’s running into things solo again—”

“I’ll handle Tim,” Bruce said, cutting Jason off. His voice was firm, but the worry was evident in his expression.

Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further.

“And Damian?” Dick asked carefully, glancing toward the cave.

Bruce hesitated, eyes seemingly lost in thought. “Hmrph. Too soon. He’s still adjusting to life here. He had…an incident with Jason.” 

Dick’s eyes widened, and his gaze flicked back between Jason and Bruce. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“It happened today, Dickwad. Besides, I was going to keep it a secret until I got interrogated by credit-score over here.” Jason sighed, pulling off his leather gloves. 

“And Alfred has informed me of a certain…incident. While helping with Damian’s injury, he noticed a long surgical scar along his spine. It wasn’t the result of a punishment or training, at least that’s what Damian said.” Bruce said, his voice rough like gravel.

“A surgical scar?” Dick asked, his voice cracking. There was a dark edge to his voice, and he looked slightly sick.

“I have asked him about it– but he either clams up or changes the topic.” Bruce sighed, suddenly feeling very old.

Jason scoffed, crossing his arms. “And here I thought I was the only one with deep, dark secrets. Guess the kid’s full of surprises.”

Bruce ignored him, his gaze shifting back toward the cave. “Whatever it is, it’s tied to his time with the League. And until we understand what we’re dealing with, Damian stays benched.”

Dick opened his mouth to protest but stopped when Bruce’s steely glare met his. There was no room for argument. For now.

Damian sat alone in the training room, his breathing measured as he methodically wrapped his fists. The faint sound of movement outside the door didn’t break his rhythm; he already knew who was coming. When the door opened and Bruce stepped in, Damian’s hands paused only briefly before resuming their task.

“Father,” he said without looking up. “Have you come to give me your evaluation?”

Bruce hesitated, glancing behind him. Dick, Jason, and Tim followed their expressions a mix of apprehension and concern. Bruce stepped forward, his voice steady but heavy.

“Damian, we need to talk.”

“I’m listening.” Damian’s voice was flat, his focus still on the wraps.

Bruce exhaled. “Your test run is officially canceled. You won’t be going out on patrol.”

Damian’s hands paused, and he took a deep, wavering breath, his eyes not leaving the wraps. The room had an air of unease like the manor itself was holding its breath. His head tilted slightly, as though registering the words but refusing to react. After a tense pause, he resumed wrapping his knuckles, his motions precise and mechanical.

“Have I done something wrong to warrant this punishment?” Damian asked, his voice cold and hard as steel. 

“No,” Bruce said softly. “It’s not a punishment. Gotham is too dangerous right now. Mercenaries and criminals are escalating—more violent, more strategic. The risk is too great.”

Damian’s hands shook as he continued to wrap his knuckles, a waver in his shoulders as he nodded. “I see,” he said, “Excuse me.” He didn’t yell, didn’t argue. Instead, he rose to his feet with an eerie calmness and walked past them, his posture rigid but composed.

“Damian, wait —” Tim shouted, hand outstretching towards Damian’s shoulders, but the boy brushed past him, breath heaving past and shoulders taut. Tim whipped to face Bruce, his face tight with pain. “Bruce, this isn’t fair. He’s ready. He needs this.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. “I know that,” he growled, the admission slipping out like a confession. He exhaled, his voice softening. “I know.” Without another word, he turned and walked away, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of his decision.

Tim turned to Dick and Jason, expecting some reaction, but the duo’s eyes were trained on the floor. Dick’s eyes were soft and wet, and he whispered, “He hates the smell of meat. It reminds him of the time he had to burn bodies. And he had to watch.”

Chapter Text

Damian didn’t return to his room after leaving the training room. Instead, he descended deeper into the Batcave, where the hum of machinery and the faint smell of oil provided a cold, clinical solace. He began another round of training—striking the heavy bag with relentless precision. Each punch was harder than the last, his knuckles already sore beneath the fresh wraps.

Each strike was a reminder that his team did not think he was good enough and that he still needed to be better and more efficient. 

More like them .

Hours passed.

When Tim finally found him, Damian was still at it, sweat dripping from his brow and staining his shirt. His fists hitting the bag were sharp and rhythmic, echoing in the cavernous space. Tim hesitated, leaning against the doorway's frame, his arms crossed tightly and a tight frown on his face.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Tim said softly, breaking through the ringing in Damian’s ears.

Damian remained silently, hitting the punching bag harder as he sliced at the bag with a dagger, adorned with gold leaves and thorns. His spine throbbed with pain and each inhale felt like wet sand, but he continued. He could not stop.

“Dami..” Tim trailed off, walking forward to pull Damian away from the bag. But Damian shouldered him off, panting as he turned to face the teenager. His face was streaked with sweat, and his eyes were red. 

“Enough. I know why you are here; there is no need to hide under the pretense of stopping my training.” The venom in his voice was sharp enough to cut. “I am not a child. If you wanted to test my resolve, you could have given me a test, not pretended to be an ally. In the future, I now know not to make allies within this team.”

“What?” Tim asked, caught off guard. “I care about you Damian, I don’t know what you–”

“ —There is no need to continue your test.” Damian spat, whipping around and diving into a roll, slashing at the bag, imagining slicing Achilles. 

The dagger gleamed as Damian moved with calculated precision, each slash at the heavy bag deliberate and savage. The sound of the blade tearing into the material echoed through the cavern, filling the silence left by Tim’s stunned pause. For a moment, he could only watch as Damian unleashed his fury, his movements as fluid as they were destructive.

“Damian, stop!” Tim’s voice was firmer this time, cutting through the rhythmic tearing of the bag. He stepped closer, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. “This isn’t about tests or proving anything. You’re hurting yourself—”

“Enough,” Damian’s voice interrupted with a snarl. “I know you merely befriended me to make the loss of patrol less…painful. It was a strategic move.” Damian turned back to training, blood starting to seep through his wraps; the red was a stark contrast against the snow-white.

“No, no , I didn’t know Dami. I was only told this morning, and-and then we were at your room and telling you. I swear, I didn’t know,” Tim stammered, voice wavering. “Please, you’re going to hurt yourself. Let’s go back to the library, please –” Tim walked forward, placing a hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder.

Damian whipped around, dagger raised at the teenager’s neck. “STOP!” he shouted, his voice cracking like a whip.

Then the boy’s eyes widened. It was like all of a sudden, all the fight left his body. And was replaced with cold, hard fear. He immediately dropped the weapon, falling to a knee, head tilted towards the ground. “Apologies for my…emotional outburst. It was a waste of energy and time.” His voice came out tilted and robotic as if he had pushed all emotions in favor of strict obedience. 

Tim suddenly wished to be back in that cot, exchanging fruit with his brother as they argued over combat techniques. This cold, distant person felt worlds away from the boy who wrinkled his nose at Tim’s energy drinks.

Tears began to spring in his eyes. How had his brother gone from someone who he had bonded over books with, to suddenly dropping to a knee like he was a servant ? “Please get up, Dami. I–I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.” He fell to his knees, cradling the boy’s cheek.

Damian looked up, his gaze distant as if he had removed himself from the scene entirely. “How…How would you like to punish me for my outburst?” he asked robotically as he began to remove his shirt.

Tim fought the urge to throw up. His breath caught in his throat as Damian’s trembling hands moved to lift his shirt, the motion mechanical and devoid of emotion. He grabbed Damian’s wrists gently but firmly, stopping him in his tracks. “Damian, no . What—what are you doing?” His voice cracked, the raw emotion in it cracked like lightning.

Damian blinked slowly, his expression distant, his voice hollow. “This is what must be done,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I failed to control my emotions. Discipline ensures it will not happen again.”

Tim spotted the scars that raked his body, lines with raised edges and chunks missing where Tim knew bullets had cut him. The worst part? Tim recognized the type of weapon used to hurt his little brother; a similar one to the dagger Damian had used earlier.

Tim’s chest ached at the cold finality in Damian’s words. He dropped to his knees in front of him, desperate to break through. “No. No, Damian. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work.” His voice cracked, tears streaming freely. Tim gently lifted Damian’s chin, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. “We’re family. I don’t care what you think you deserve. I’m never going to hurt you. Do you understand me? Never. Please, Damian, please .”

For a moment, Damian looked at him, something fragile flickering in his eyes. But then, like a flame snuffed out, the light vanished. He shook his head abruptly, breaking free from Tim’s hold. Without a word, he stood, snatched up his dagger, and turned away, his shoulders hunched tightly as if trying to shield himself from the world. 

“Damian, wait!” Tim called, his voice cracking with the raw emotion he could no longer hold back. But Damian didn’t stop. He kept running, his pace quickening, disappearing into the shadows of the cavern.

“DAMIAN!” Tim’s cry echoed through the Batcave, each syllable weighted with desperation and grief. He collapsed where he knelt, his sobs filling the space. But the boy was gone, leaving Tim alone with the unbearable silence.

Damian was going to die. He should not have acted so violently like he was a child with no control over his emotions. He should have never acted like that to a superior, to one with the power over his commands. 

He ran, fast and hard, away from the Batcave; the thread that Damian had been clinging to felt like it had snapped, and he shoved the growing sob from his throat, shoved it all away. It was too much. 

He distantly heard Tim searching the manor to find him, sobs wracking his body and breath coming fast and hard. Damian did not deserve his tears. He felt something twist in his heart but shoved it away.

Not now .

Damian’s mind flicked back to the last time he disobeyed. How the sting of the whip had shredded his back, how it ached for days, the scabs cracking and peeling whenever he turned his body. Damian had picked glass out of his knees and palms for days, and he woke up with a cold sweat whenever the room was too quiet.

How the electricity had felt like he was struck with lightning over and over and over.

It didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter how much Tim or Jason or Dick liked him; if Father heard about his indiscretion, he was going to be executed.

His one objective was to protect his team. And instead he had done the opposite.

Not only had he failed his objective, but had threatened a superior. Worst off? He had let his emotions get the best of him. Like he was a child. 

In an instant, lost in the past and his scrambling thoughts, Damian hard into an object, nearly tumbling to the ground.

“Woah!” said a voice, and Damian instantly recognized it as Grayson’s. “Hey, Dames, how’re— woah, are you okay?” the man’s voice instantly softened, which made everything so much worse.

Damian stumbled back, his chest heaving as if the contact had knocked the air out of him. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, a frantic pounding that drowned out the world around him. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t. If he met Grayson’s eyes, he would break.

Damian wanted someone to scream, to yell. For someone to slap him or cut him. To order him to crawl on his hands and knees for forgiveness. That was more familiar than this ache he had in his heart.

“Damian?” Grayson’s voice was lower now, softer, almost hesitant. The lightness that usually accompanied his words was gone, replaced by genuine concern. “What’s going on, buddy?”

Damian shook his head, attempting to brush past the man, but Grayson grabbed his arm enough to stop him, but without feeling like restraint. It was steadying in a way Damian could not comprehend, but it made the ache even worse. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling, tasting iron as he opened and closed his mouth.

“Unimportant. I must go,” He said curtly. Where he was going to go, Damian had not figured out yet. Perhaps he would begin with letters to his team before preparing for his execution.

“Hey, you need to tell me what’s wrong,” Dick said, crouching to meet Damian’s eyes. Like Timothy did. “You okay?”

Damian felt like screaming. Like tearing his arm away, but he could not risk upsetting another superior. The warmth in the man’s voice was too much to bear. Damian had already upset one, he could not upset another. 

“Yes, I am okay. Sir.” Damian softly pulled his arm away, eyes focused on the wooden floors. His eyes found their way to the front door.

“Did someone who make you upset?” Dick asked, an edge to his voice that made Damian pause.

Was the man…worried?

Damian tasted bile in his mouth and his hands clenched into fists. He couldn’t. 

“It is nothing. Please let me leave before Father—” He stopped, realizing all too late what he had said.

Damian met Grayson’s narrowed eyes, and there was a sharpness in the sea of blue. “Before Father… what? What did Bruce do?” His eyes flickered to the cave, eyes running the boy’s body over. He was covered in sweat, and blood soaked through his wraps. “Did something happen in the cave?”

Damian couldn’t lie. Not about this. Grayson is Father’s second-hand man. “Yes. But I am prepared for it.” Damian couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. 

Coward.

“Prepared for what?” Grayson asked, voice still soft but more insistent. The grip on Damian’s arm began to burn now like he was being branded. 

Grayson did not know yet. Which meant that Damian still had time. 

If he was going to die, he was going to do it on his terms. 

“Let me go,” Damian whispered, pulling his arm back with a tug. The man immediately let go, his eyes wide as Damian began to run past him. 

“Damian!”

He could hear the man jog behind him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

It was all too much.

Too much .

Damian threw open the front door, breaking into a sprint. He bolted towards the woods, feeling the sticks and thorns tear his feet into ribbons. His heart was pounding so loud that he could barely hear Dick anymore.

If he wasn’t going to be executed then, he would now.

Damian ran and ran and ran, his spine and ribs screaming in protest. Damian didn’t look back until he stumbled upon a creek, and fell to the forest floor, immediately throwing up his breakfast. Damian clutched his stomach, his body wracked with spasms as he emptied what little he’d eaten that morning into the grass by the creek. His throat burned, and his hands trembled as they gripped the earth beneath him. The cool air stung against his flushed skin, and for a moment, all he could do was breathe—short, shallow gasps that didn’t seem to fill his lungs.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, hunched over and trembling. But then he heard it—footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunching against the forest floor. Damian tensed, his muscles coiling like a spring. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

“Damian,” Grayson’s voice called out, softer now, almost pleading. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

If Grayson was going to try and trick him like Drake had, he was not falling for it. 

“Leave, Grayson.” Damian’s voice did not seem like his own. It was splintered, broken. It sounded weak. 

Weak.

“I’m not. Whatever you think Bruce is going to do, I promise he won’t. And if you truly think he will, there is no way in hell , I’m going to let that happen.” Grayson stepped forward more, hands open like a plea.

Damian wanted to run until he disappeared. But he was just. So. Tired .

“You… you do not know that,” Damian whispered, staring at himself in the reflection of the water. Bile gathered at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were red and puffy. 

“I do. We all love you. Tim, Jason, Bruce, and I. Come back,” Grayson’s voice was now close enough to Damian that he could hear the tremble in it. 

Damian knew it was a trick.

But the sound of this ‘family’ sounded too sweet. The feeling of Drake playing with his hair, or Todd flicking through a book as Damian trained, or Grayson’s booming laugh. 

“I don’t deserve this. I’m not like.. you. I was made to be used. And that’s how I will die. Following a command. That’s all I will be. Why… why do you all insist on the opposite?”

Dick didn’t know many things. He didn’t know how to save his little brothers. He didn’t know how to save himself half the time. But he recognized Damian’s confession as that of a dead man. His heart twisted painfully at Damian’s words, but he didn’t let it show. He couldn’t. Not when the boy in front of him was so close to breaking, so close to disappearing entirely. Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance, to pull Damian into a hug and shield him from whatever horrors he was running from. But he knew better. Damian wasn’t ready for that—not yet.

“You weren’t made to be anything, Damian,” Grayson said softly, crouching down to Damian’s level. He kept his voice steady. “You’re not a tool, or a weapon, or some… cog in a machine. You’re a person. You’re you. And that’s enough.”

Damian’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. His reflection in the creek blurred as tears welled in his eyes. “You do not understand. You’ve never understood. I was bred for this—raised for this. I’m nothing without it.” The words rushed out of him like vomit, and he felt something splinter inside his chest.

“That’s not true,” Grayson countered firmly, his tone gentle but unwavering. “You’re so much more than what they told you. Then what they tried to make you believe. You’re a fighter, Damian. But you don’t have to fight alone anymore. You’ve got us now.”

Damian’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling. “You cannot fix me.” he said again, but it lacked conviction. His hands unclenched, falling limp at his sides.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Grayson said gently. “You’re not broken, Damian. You’re just… lost. And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to let someone help you find your way back.”

Damian finally turned to look at him, his emerald eyes rimmed with red, his expression raw and vulnerable in a way Dick had rarely seen. For a moment, he looked like a child—just a scared, exhausted child who didn’t know how to take the hand being offered to him.

“I do not know how,” Damian admitted, his voice barely audible.

Grayson’s smile softened, and he extended his hand, palm up, inviting but not demanding. “That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll figure it out together. One step at a time. All you have to do right now is trust me.”

Damian stared at the hand for what felt like an eternity. His mind screamed at him to run, to push Grayson away and retreat to the safety of solitude. But the warmth in his voice, the steadiness in his presence—it was too much to ignore. Slowly, hesitantly, Damian reached out and placed his small hand in Dick’s.

Damian walked back to the manor, Grayson’s hand resting on his shoulder. The man hadn’t questioned Damian at all, only shooting worried glances in Damian’s direction.

His feet left bloodied footprints on the stone driveway, and the sting of the splinters in his feet served as a way to ground him. 

If Damian could not punish himself, it meant that Father would be the one wielding the sword. 

When he raised his hand to knock, the door flung open, Todd’s eyes widening at the sight of Damian and Drake flinging himself forward to hug him.

The comfort only made his stomach twist even more. Grayson had insisted that Drake truly did see Damian as an ally. 

Damian stood stiffly as Drake’s arms wrapped around him, the contact jarring in its intensity. The hug was desperate, almost suffocating, and Damian flinched, his breath hitching. He had raised a dagger to this man—had nearly struck him in a moment of blind panic—and now Tim was clutching him as though Damian were something fragile, something that might slip away.  

“Don’t,” Damian said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. He felt like he was sinking, the weight of Drake’s touch pulling him under.

Tim froze but didn’t let go, his arms loosening just enough to pull back and look at Damian’s face. His expression was unreadable, a mix of relief and guilt warring in his eyes.  

“You’re okay,” Drake said, his voice trembling. “You’re here.”  

“It does not matter,” Damian murmured, his gaze fixed on the floor. He couldn’t meet Drake’s eyes. Not when he could still feel the phantom weight of the blade in his hand. He knew it didn’t matter what apologies were said, or what he did now.

He was a dead man.  

Drake’s grip faltered, and he stepped back, looking to Grayson for an explanation.  

“He’s tired,” Grayson said gently, his hand still on Damian’s shoulder. “Let him get cleaned up first, and then we’ll talk.”  

Todd, who had been lingering silently in the doorway, crossed his arms. His sharp eyes darted to Damian’s bloodied feet, then to the grim expression on Grayson’s face. “What the hell happened?” Todd asked, his tone harsher than intended.  

Damian’s stomach churned. He didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to be here. He just wanted it to be over.  

“It’s nothing,” Damian said quickly, his voice brittle. “I—”  

“It’s not nothing,” Drake interrupted, his voice cracking. He took a step closer, his hands trembling at his sides. “You—you ran off like that. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. Damian, you—” Drake’s voice cracked, and he raised a hand to his mouth.

Damian flinched again, his shoulders hunching. “I didn't mean to frighten you,” he said stiffly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was… not my intention.”  

Drake’s lips parted, his expression softening, but Jason cut in before he could respond.  

“Yeah, well, intention or not, you look like you got hit by a truck.” Todd gestured to Damian’s bloodied feet and dirt-streaked face, his voice losing some of its edge. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you patched up.”  

Damian shook his head. “I can handle it myself.”  

“No, you can’t.” Todd’s tone brooked no argument, but it wasn’t unkind. He glanced at Grayson, who gave a small nod. “Kitchen. Now. I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”  

Damian hesitated, his legs trembling beneath him, but Grayson’s hand on his shoulder guided him forward. He let himself be led, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn’t silence.  

Drake followed closely, his eyes never leaving Damian’s back. “You’re not okay, Damian,” he said softly as they reached the kitchen. “And that’s… that’s okay. But you have to let us help.”  

Damian didn’t respond. He sat silently at the table as Todd returned with the first-aid kit, his movements surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the boy’s feet. Drake hovered nearby, wringing his hands, while Grayson leaned against the counter, his arms crossed but his expression unreadable.  

The silence was heavy, suffocating. Damian stared down at his hands, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying his composure.  

Finally, Drake broke the silence. “Why did you run, Damian?”  

The question hung in the air, and Damian felt his throat tighten. “Because I had no other choice,” he said quietly, his voice hollow.  

Drake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? You always have a choice. You could have stayed. You could have talked to me.”  

Damian’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with something between anger and despair. “No. I disobeyed a superior. I pushed the limits of my freedom. And that warrants punishment. Punishment or death.” Damian’s eyes flicked to the ground, feeling himself begin to shake. “There is nothing you can do now.”

Grayson flinched at the words, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “Damian—” he began, but Drake cut him off, his voice gentle but insistent.

“There’s no punishment, Damian. No one here is going to hurt you,” Drake said, his voice breaking as he leaned in, his eyes searching Damian’s for a flicker of understanding.

They still didn’t know.

Damian wished he had never gone to Gotham. Because he would rather die again with everything to gain rather than die with everything to lose.

He would rather die without knowing the feeling of Todd and Drake’s arms wrapping around his body. Without knowing the feeling of Grayson’s ever-constant comfort.

The sound of Bruce’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, each step deliberate, measured. The air in the room thickened, and Damian straightened instinctively, his trembling hands curling into tight fists at his sides.  

When Bruce entered, his gaze swept across the kitchen, taking in the scene: Todd with the bloodied bandages, Drake pale and wringing his hands, Grayson leaning against the counter, his jaw tight. Finally, Bruce’s eyes settled on Damian, who sat rigid at the table, his back unnaturally straight and his chin tilted slightly upward, despite the faint quiver in his body.  

Bruce’s voice was low, steady. “What happened?”  

No one spoke. Damian rose to his feet sharply, his movements mechanical, controlled. His head snapped up, his eyes locking on Bruce’s. “I ran,” he stated coldly, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. “Because I disobeyed orders. I deserve punishment.”  

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he took a step closer, his towering presence filling the room. “Sit down, Damian.”  

Damian didn’t move. His voice, though hollow, was unwavering. “I accept whatever sentence you deem appropriate, Father.” His hands, hidden at his sides, tightened into trembling fists. “You may proceed.”  

The room seemed to freeze.  

“Sentence?” Bruce echoed, his voice soft but carrying a sharp edge. “What are you talking about?”  

Damian’s throat worked, but his voice remained flat. “I failed. I disrespected my superior and undermined your authority. I compromised my position. According to League doctrine—” His breath hitched for the briefest second before he forced it steady. “—such behavior warrants execution.”  

Todd swore under his breath, stepping back, while Drake’s hands clenched into tight fists. Grayson’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, his eyes fixed on Bruce.  

Bruce’s expression darkened—not with anger, but with something heavier, more raw. He closed the distance between them, his eyes boring into Damian’s. “You think I’m here to punish you?” he asked, his voice impossibly quiet.  

Damian swallowed hard, the tremor in his body becoming more visible. “It’s what I deserve.”  

“No.” Bruce’s voice was sharp now, cutting through Damian’s mechanical facade like a blade. “You don’t get to decide that. You’re not in the League anymore, Damian.”  

Damian flinched, but his posture didn’t falter. He kept his chin up, his expression locked in place, though his shaking hands betrayed him. “I am your soldier,” he said, his voice shaking despite his attempt to steady it. “And I failed. There is nothing else to say.”  

Bruce stared at him, his chest rising and falling slowly as he fought to keep his composure. “You’re not my soldier,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “You’re my son.”  

The words hit Damian like a punch to the gut. His mask faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced it back into place. “I am nothing without a purpose,” he said, his voice breaking despite himself. “I cannot— I cannot just be.”  

Bruce stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Damian,” he said quietly, but there was no mistaking the weight behind the words. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. Not now. Not ever.”  

For a moment, Damian didn’t respond. Then, slowly, his hands began to unclench. His shoulders slumped just slightly, the rigid lines of his body softening as cracks began to form in the walls he had built.  

Bruce’s voice softened. “I don’t care about orders or failure or any of the things you’ve convinced yourself matter. All I care about is you.”  

The room was silent except for the faint sound of Damian’s uneven breathing. His mask crumbled further, his eyes flickering with a mix of emotions—anger, fear, shame, and something else he couldn’t name.  

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bruce continued, stepping even closer. “You’re safe here. And you’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling, Damian. You don’t have to bury it anymore.”  

The dam broke. Damian’s knees buckled, and Bruce caught him before he hit the floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Damian whispered, voice wavering.

Bruce’s arms wrapped around him, strong and steady. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm. “You don’t have to apologize for being human.”  

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Damian let himself believe it.

Damian’s shoulders slumped, the last of his defenses crumbling. He pulled away from Bruce, his voice quiet but insistent. “Then let me go on patrol. Not to prove anything—just to fulfill my objective.”

He could not one more second without a command. 

Bruce studied him for a long moment, the tension in the room palpable. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained firm. “You’ll go with your brothers. You will stay as backup, and provide assistance to one brother over the course of the patrol. There will be no self-sacrificial aspect.”

Damian blinked, surprised, but he nodded quickly, relief flooding his features. “Thank you.”

Tim stepped forward then, hesitating before placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “And if you ever try pulling something like this again, I swear I’ll—” He stopped himself, his lips twitching upward into a small, genuine smile. “Well, let’s just say you won’t get rid of me that easily, okay?”

Damian nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Understood.” 

Chapter Text

The Batcave hummed softly, the sound of distant machinery and dripping water echoing through the cavernous space. Damian stood near the central workstation, the faint flicker of monitors casting shadows across his face. He was stripped of his usual armor, wearing only a black compression shirt and leggings. His ribs were tightly wrapped in bandages, and his feet were propped up slightly, exposing makeshift coverings over deep cuts that hadn’t fully healed. His busted knuckles rested at his sides, poorly concealed by fresh gauze Jason had wrapped earlier.

Bruce approached with measured steps, carrying a sleek, dark suit. It was different from Damian’s usual attire—lighter, less armored, its matte finish designed to blend into the shadows.

“This is your new suit,” Bruce said, holding it out for Damian to inspect. “It’s optimized for stealth and agility. You’ll use it strictly for reconnaissance and support. Welcome to the team, Wraith.”

Damian nodded curtly, inspecting the suit, hands clasped behind him. He felt a buzz underneath his skin like an electric current; Damian had a purpose now, but he was still feeling the idea of a life without one.

Tim came up behind him, clasping his shoulder with a grin. “So, you excited for tonight?” he asked, ruffling the boy’s hair. Damian frowned, glancing at Tim over as they prepared for Patrol. Jason was back in Crime Alley and Dick had gone back to Bludhaven, leaving just the trio that night.

Damian’s grip on the suit tightened again. He hesitated, then said, “I will perform my role adequately. You have no reason to be concerned.”

Tim’s smile melted into a frown and he quirked an eyebrow, “That’s not what I asked.”

Damian’s shoulders stiffened. He hadn’t forgotten the way he’d stormed out after their last conversation, leaving Tim to deal with the fallout of his emotional outburst. The memory felt like a weight pressing against his already bruised ribs. “I…I am,” he nodded, the response bringing a smirk to Tim’s face.

“Remember to stay close. Damian– follow Tim closely tonight, only providing reconnaissance and support. If anything happens, and I mean anything, you call for backup,” Bruce’s eyes shot to Tim, whose face flushed with red. “Things are different now. Mercenaries are desperate and more violent. There’s no fear in their veins, only adrenaline. If you find any new tech, bring it back in one piece if you can.”

Bruce nodded toward them both. “Suit up. We leave in five.”

Damian turned away, stepping behind a partition to change. He moved gingerly, his bruised ribs and aching spine reminding him of their presence with every small motion. As he slid into the suit, he noted how light it felt, how seamlessly it clung to his form. It felt strange—too exposed, too vulnerable—but he would endure.

When he rejoined Tim and Bruce at the Batmobile, he stood a little straighter, masking his discomfort. Bruce glanced at him briefly, as if assessing his readiness, before sliding into the driver’s seat.

Tim clapped Damian lightly on the shoulder, earning a sharp glare. “Hey, relax,” Tim said with a small grin. “Backup’s a team effort. Just follow my lead, and we’ll be fine.”

Damian didn’t respond, but as he climbed into the Batmobile, his hands settled into his lap, fists tightening briefly before relaxing.

The air was crisp and still, carrying the faint hum of Gotham’s ever-present chaos. Damian perched on a fire escape, his new stealth suit blending seamlessly with the shadows. Below him, Tim moved with practiced precision, disabling a security camera with a quiet flick of his wrist. The two of them had been tailing a group of mercenaries rumored to be smuggling experimental tech into Gotham.

“Robin, the lead operative is 10 meters above you. He’s surrounded by six men, all heavily armed. They look to be wielding experimental rifles. Not standard issue,” Damian whispered into the closed comms, creeping along the steel beams of the old warehouse. 

It smelt of rust and rain, sleek cars parked along the outside and the mercenaries all discussing within. It looked to be in the midst of the trade, the men using the cover of the recent bank robberies as the perfect veil for the deal.

“Great. Gotta love these amateur scientists,” Tim whispered back on the rooftops of the nearby warehouses. 

Damian was still getting used to this form of mission, taking one’s time to gain information, spying along the shadows and corners of the building. His body itched for a fight, hand going involuntarily towards his dagger, but he stopped himself. 

Stick to the objective.

Tim’s voice crackled softly in Damian’s earpiece again. “Stay sharp. These guys have been stepping up their game, and I don’t like it. Those rifles—they’re not just experimental. They look like energy weapons.”

Damian’s grip on the steel beam tightened as he peered through the slats of the metal grating. The lead mercenary was barking orders, gesturing toward a sleek black case resting on a crate. Another man opened it, revealing a rifle glowing faintly with an eerie blue light. The air seemed to vibrate around the weapon, its hum audible even from Damian’s position.

“Noted,” Damian replied tersely. His voice was calm, but the sight of the weapon ignited a sense of unease he refused to let surface. “Moving closer. Standby.”

He adjusted his footing, shifting silently to a vantage point above the group. His stealth suit absorbed the faint light streaming through the warehouse windows, rendering him nearly invisible. From the rooftop, Tim kept a close eye on his partner, his body tensed, ready to intervene if needed.

“Remember the rules,” Tim said, his tone carrying a gentle reminder rather than reproach. “We’re here to gather intel first. No going rogue.”

Damian hesitated, feeling the sting of guilt laced within those words. He swallowed the urge to bristle and forced a steady exhale. “Understood,” he said, though his fingers still hovered near the hilt of his dagger.

One of the mercenaries below laughed, slapping the side of the crate. “This baby’s got enough juice to light up half the city. Imagine what we can do with the full shipment. I imagine she’ll be pleased by these.”

“They’re not testing these in Gotham for kicks,” Tim muttered. “This is bigger than just a trade.”

Damian caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Another guard had started to circle the perimeter, his flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. Damian pressed himself flat against the beam, the faint scrape of his suit on metal swallowed by the ambient noise of the city outside.

“Stray guard heading your way,” he whispered.

“On it,” Tim replied, already moving.

As the guard rounded the corner of the building, Tim dropped down with precision, his feet landing silently behind the mercenary. In a fluid motion, he yanked the man backward, delivering a swift jab to his neck that left him unconscious. Tim dragged the body into the shadows, ensuring it was out of sight before rejoining Damian over comms.

“Perimeter’s clear for now,” Tim reported. “What’s your read on the group inside?”

Damian shifted slightly, angling for a better view. “Now it’s eight men. Two more are outside on patrol, one armed with the rifle. They’re growing impatient. Whatever they’re trading, it’s not staying here for long.”

Tim exhaled. “We need a closer look at that tech. Can you see the serial numbers on the crate?”

Damian’s brow furrowed. He adjusted his position again, using lenses to mark the faint markings on the side of the case. The mercenaries were shifting, blocking his view. “Negative,” he murmured. “Too obscured. If we don’t move soon, we’ll lose—”

A faint clatter echoed from the far end of the warehouse. Both Damian and Tim froze as the mercenaries whipped their heads toward the sound.

“What was that?” one of them barked.

Tim’s voice was sharp in Damian’s ear. “It wasn’t me.”

“Nor me,” Damian replied.

A beat of silence passed before the mercenaries sprang into action, barking orders and scattering to investigate. The lead operative secured the case, hoisting it onto his shoulder as two guards flanked him.

“They’re moving,” Damian hissed.

Tim’s tone was calm but firm. “Stay on them. I’ll cut them off from the north exit.”

Damian nodded, his body coiled like a spring as he trailed the group. Every step was deliberate, his focus sharp despite the protest of his battered body. His ribs ached with every breath, his spine throbbed, and the faint sting of his wounded feet reminded him of his condition.

But none of it mattered now.

He was a shadow in their wake, unseen and unheard. As the mercenaries approached the exit, Tim leaped down from his vantage point, landing in front of them with a flourish.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Tim said, his staff extended. “Mind sticking around for a chat?”

The lead mercenary growled, raising the glowing rifle. “Take them out!”

Damian dropped from the rafters like a silent predator, landing directly on one of the guards and knocking him to the ground. Before the others could react, he disarmed another with a sharp twist of his arm, sending the man’s weapon clattering to the floor.

Tim was already in motion, his staff spinning in precise arcs as he deflected a burst of energy from the rifle. The weapon’s blast seared through the air, narrowly missing him and leaving a scorch mark on the wall behind him.

“They’ve upgraded,” Tim muttered.

Damian moved with efficiency, his strikes calculated and deliberate. He didn’t aim to incapacitate outright, focusing instead on creating openings for Tim to exploit. When another guard lunged at Tim, Damian was there, driving a kick into the man’s side that sent him sprawling.

But the mercenaries were relentless, their aggression unnerving. Even as they took hits, they pressed forward, their coordination suggesting military training.

“They’re targeting us specifically,” Damian said, ducking under a wild swing.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Tim replied, catching another blast with the shield attachment on his staff. “Focus, Wraith. We’ve got this.”

The fight raged on, the experimental weapons let out a low hum at every fire, and Damian had to keep his eyes trained on Tim to ensure his safety. No matter what his Father said about injuring himself, his directive remained the same: Protect his brothers.

Tim lept over a crate, ramming his bo-staff into a mercenary’s shin, and ducking into a roll to avoid another energy blast. Damian worked to use the shadows in his favor and Tim as the large distraction.

By the time the last mercenary was subdued, the warehouse was eerily quiet once more. Damian stood over the unconscious body of the lead operative, his chest heaving as he wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.

Tim approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did good tonight,” he said, his voice sincere.

Damian hesitated, the praise catching him off guard. He nodded stiffly, his gaze fixed on the unconscious mercenaries. “Mission objectives were fulfilled. That’s all that matters.”

Tim sighed but didn’t push further. “Let’s secure the tech and call it in. Batman is going to want to analyze this stuff.”

As they worked to secure the scene, Damian found himself glancing at Tim more than once, the guilt from earlier still gnawing at him. But for now, the mission was done, and that was enough.

The rooftop was quiet as Tim and Damian perched on its edge, the city sprawled out below them in its usual chaotic splendor. The fight with the mercenaries had ended hours ago, and now the two were on surveillance duty, waiting for a potential follow-up from the group. The air was thick with tension, though not from the mission.

“How’re your injuries?” Tim asked, perched on the AC unit, knees up as he scanned the city line. Gotham was different than the hot, isolated place Damian grew up. Often, it felt like the city was alive and breathing, the times when Damian explored it. 

Damian rolled his shoulders, ignoring the flare of pain from his spine. “Minimal. They will not affect my performance tonight,” he added. 

Tim shook his head, leaning back as he glanced at Damian’s shoes. “Don’t care about your performance, dude. How are you doing? Pain-wise.”

“Minimal,” Damian replied, Tim throwing his head down and sighing. “I have faced far worse than minor damage to one’s feet.” 

Damian’s mind flicked back to when he lay in bed, every movement sending shocks of pain radiating down his back. It was as if his body was betraying him in real-time, every nerve ending on fire. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt—raw, relentless, and invasive. 

“What do you mean?” Tim asked, his voice hollow and raw. Damian glanced back at the teenager to spot Tim staring, no longer observing the city and instead watching Damian’s every move. 

“Missions were unpredictable. Sometimes information changes at a moment’s notice. Other times the target themselves changed.” Damian said after a moment. He knew to keep the information minimal, remembering his mother’s directive not to give confidential information to anyone.

That included his spine.

“It helped allow me to become a better soldier.” Damian played with his gloves, glancing at the scars that ran over his palms and the back of his hands like rivers carving through the land. It felt unreal most times; the missions blurred together in his mind and the pain all melted together into a few moments of pure agony.

It was hard to tell where one nightmare ended and reality began.

Tim blinked at him, sighing with a growl. “Some days, I want to just have a word with the League.” Damian wanted to laugh, but there was an edge to Tim’s voice that Damian was not expecting. 

Damian tilted his head slightly, studying Tim’s expression. The usual air of sarcasm and easy-going wit was gone, replaced by something more raw and vulnerable. His fingers curled involuntarily against his knees, an odd pang of guilt rising in his chest.

Tim glanced back at him, noticing the shift in Damian’s demeanor. “You know, I get that you don’t like talking about this stuff,” he continued, his voice softer now. “But it’s not just about what you’re capable of or what you’ve survived. It’s about what you’ve been made to survive.”

Damian’s mind flicked back to Dick’s words, his gentle smile, and the way he always let Damian guide the conversation. 

“Back at the League, attachments were not…encouraged. Attachments meant that one may be hesitant on a mission, or have sympathy for the target,” Damian said quietly, eyes trailing over the sparkling city lights and the low rumble of nearby cars. “I was not made for that. But, I…foolishly became close with a tutor of mine. One that helped train me in one of my martial arts styles. Over time, he became a sort of…ally to me.”

Tim’s eyes softened and he turned his body completely, forearm resting on his bent knee and head tilted. 

“Of course, it was a test. One moment, he was…showing me a move, and I let my guard down. Then…he was ordering me to slit my own throat.” Damian's voice turned hollow, the words sinking like stones to the bottom of a dark pool. He could see it clearly in his mind's eye, the sharp contrast of the man’s smiling face—warm, paternal even—flashing before him, followed by the cold, cruel command. The old man had been kind , Damian had thought. He had been a mentor. But in the end, that was exactly what he was supposed to be: a tool in the League’s twisted game of training, a test to gauge Damian’s resolve.

Damian’s gaze darkened as he continued, the weight of his past pressing down on his words. “From that point on, I learned that I could only trust my commanders; My superiors. The people who gave the orders and kept me moving forward.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpness that reflected the lessons the League had drilled into him.

He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar burn of the scars beneath his gloves. The League had never allowed room for softness, for humanity. Emotions were to be suppressed, dismissed, or used as tools for manipulation. Damian had learned that lesson well, over and over again. And when the day came that his ally —someone he’d trusted—turned on him, the lesson became painfully clear.

Tim’s face softened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he simply nodded, as though trying to process the weight of what Damian was saying. The silence between them stretched on, thick with the unsaid.

The words tasted bitter, like acid on his tongue. He had spent so many years convincing himself that this was the only way, that this was the path to survival. But now, sitting there with Tim, he felt that same old loneliness creeping back in. The one that came with keeping everyone at arm’s length.

“You think that’s the right way?” Tim’s voice cut through the heavy air. “You really think that cutting people out makes you stronger?”

Damian hesitated. His thoughts flickered back to his time with the League, the moments when the world felt smaller, more manageable when his only focus was the next mission, the next order. It was easier to keep the world at a distance, to sever the ties before they could bind him in ways he didn’t want.

Damian nodded, staring out towards the Manor. “I do.”

There was a pause as if the words themselves had carved out room in the tense atmosphere. Damian hated these parts of conversations. 

“You were lonely there, weren’t you?” Tim asked softly, and it felt as if someone had plunged Damian into cold water. His shoulders stiffened, suddenly feeling a chill down his spine. 

The weight of Tim’s question hung in the air, piercing through the carefully constructed walls Damian had spent years building. He didn’t turn to look at Tim, his gaze locked on the distant lights of the Manor as if the answer could be found there instead of within himself.

“Loneliness is a luxury. Training, missions, objectives; they kept me busy. Kept me efficient,” Damian replied after a long pause, his voice clipped and measured. It was the kind of answer Ra’s al Ghul would have approved of—detached, clinical. But even as he said it, the words felt hollow, lacking the conviction he intended.

“That’s not an answer,” Tim pressed gently, shifting closer on the AC unit. His tone wasn’t mocking or challenging; it was patient. Persistent.

Damian’s fists clenched tighter, the scars on his palms pulling taut against his skin. Memories he’d buried long ago clawed their way to the surface—endless nights spent staring at the cold stone walls of his room, the silence pressing down on him like a physical weight. The longing he had felt, though he hadn’t known what to name it back then. A longing for something more .

“I had my duties,” Damian said, his voice softer now, tinged with an edge of weariness he hadn’t intended to show. His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his next words. “That was enough.”

Tim didn’t laugh or scoff at the obvious deflection. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Yeah, maybe it was enough to survive. But was it enough to live ?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, his thoughts racing. The League had always been clear about his purpose—he was a weapon, a soldier, an extension of his grandfather’s will. His desires, his humanity , were irrelevant. But here was Tim, sitting beside him, challenging those notions with a quiet persistence that Damian found both irritating and unsettling.

“Why does everyone insist on informing me of that?” Damian said, his tone sharper now, almost defensive. It was infuriating to try and explain that he had his ways growing up; it may not have been up to the manor’s standards. But Damian had survived. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

“And yet, you’re still sitting here,” Tim pointed out, his voice calm but firm. “You’re still here, with us. You could have gone back to the League. You could have left Gotham. But you didn’t. Why?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately, the question echoing in his mind. Why hadn’t he left? He had told himself it was out of obligation, out of loyalty to his father’s mission. But as he sat there, the truth began to creep in, unwelcome but undeniable.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, Gotham had become something more than just a city to patrol. The Manor had become something more than just a headquarters. And the people he fought alongside—however infuriating they could be—had become something more than just colleagues.

Focus on the directive.

Damian shook his head, feeling himself straighten and turning his body away from Tim’s soft gaze. “It does not matter. I am here now, solely to learn and complete my commands.” He said, harsher than intended. Tim blinked, opening his mouth to respond before the comms crackled with life.

“Hey Bats, sorry to ruin this sweet moment, but there’s been calls of Crane loitering around the edges of Crime Alley. Wraith – mind swinging over to Hood for some backup?” Oracle asked although Damian knew it wasn’t a question at all. Damian gave Tim a look, but he nodded, patting Damian’s shoulder.

“Will do,” Damian said, standing up on the rooftops and giving Tim one more look up and down. He opened his mouth to speak but fought against it. Instead, he gave Tim one curt nod.

Tim gave a strained smile, standing up with a small grunt. “Stay safe, demon child.” 

As Damian leaped from rooftop to rooftop, slowly making his way towards Crime Alley with his grapple, he thought back to the conversation with Tim and the others.

It was strange, how much they insisted on being close to him. No matter how many times Damian pushed, reverted to formalities, or refused to say a word, they were always there. Waiting for Damian to take their outstretched hands.

If only.

The wind whipped against Damian’s face as he swung across the rooftops, the rhythmic thwip of his grappling hook punctuating the quiet night. The familiar shadows of Gotham wrapped around him like an old cloak, providing comfort and anonymity in equal measure. Crime Alley loomed closer, its dilapidated buildings and narrow alleyways carved with stories of desperation and survival.

His thoughts betrayed him, though, circling back to Tim and the others. It was maddening how their words lingered, clinging to the edges of his mind no matter how much he tried to shake them off. Damian had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize, to keep emotions locked away where they couldn’t interfere. Yet here he was, with their voices echoing in his head, questioning his choices, his walls, his very sense of self.

He landed silently on a fire escape, his boots barely making a sound as he scanned the darkened street below. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow too deliberate to be natural. Crane was here, somewhere. But instead of focusing fully on the hunt, his mind betrayed him once again.

The thought gnawed at him. Disappointment was not unfamiliar to Damian. He had seen it in his mother’s eyes during his earliest failures and felt it in his grandfather’s condescending smiles. It had always been a tool, a weapon they used to mold him into what they needed. But with the others—with Tim, Grayson, and even Father—it felt… different.

It wasn’t a weapon to them. It was a reflection of their care, their unrelenting belief that Damian could be more than what the League had made him. And that terrified him.

The spray of gunfire broke through the fog in Damian’s mind and he scanned the edges of the abandoned warehouse buildings. He spotted Jason fending off the leftovers of some of Crane’s mercenaries, wielding dual rifles equipped with rubber bullets.

“Hey Wraith – mind helping a guy out? Y’know, without blunt force damage to one’s body of course,” Jason smiled, using the butt of a rifle to swipe at another’s face.

Damian dropped down, scanning the area for outliers, but only spotted more steel containers of Fear-Toxin, all hidden within wooden crates. He scanned Jason’s body but only spotted minor injuries, curious as to why he had been called.

“What seems to be out of the ordinary?” Damian whispered, slinking along the edges of the walls and listening for the calls and yells of nearby mercenaries. 

“Look at the weapons,” Jason called, picking up a weapon with a gloved hand. Damian squinted at the gun, eyes widening at the hijacked firearm. “Bullets are coated with fear toxin. Even one graze can send someone into a blind panic. They’re spread out across the alleyways, trying to give them to an unknown buyer.” Jason’s eyes glanced over, cocking his gun as he fixed Damian with a stare. “You’re going to be in the shadows; my eyes and ears. Nothing more, okay? No more superman bullshit; you’re not the ‘boy of steel’.”

Damian nodded, although he felt something tug at the edges of his mouth. He climbed up a dinky fire escape, clinging to the edges where the broken streetlamps and damaged lights made him almost invisible.

He crept along the rooftops, seeing some men wielding the hijacked weapons as they stalked around, whispering to themselves – or, to some closed comms. “Hood, they’re up past the edges of this nearest building. They’re in pairs of two, trying to cover most of the area. Look to be ex-military. They’re using closed communication – some kind of earpiece.” 

In one moment, Jason leaped forward, jamming his combat boots into one’s knee, and using the momentum to jab his elbow into another’s trachea. Damian crept along, fighting against the urge to leap into the battle. His hand hovered above his dagger, but he paused, waiting for Jason to give him a signal. 

In one smooth motion, he picked up the earpiece, telling Oracle to allow them access. One moment was silence, the next was the quiet communication of the men. Although they used clipped words, signals, and coded messages. 

Damian tuned into the comms, deciphering the clipped code as he stalked the rooftops. His sharp ears picked up a pattern: references to positions, cargo movement, and their rendezvous with the buyer. It wasn’t long before the mercenaries’ voices layered over each other, creating a map in his mind.

“They’re regrouping near the northeast loading dock,” Damian whispered into his comm. “Four pairs, possibly a fifth unit, providing cover. I can flank them and—”

“Wraith, stick to your assignment,” Jason interrupted through gritted teeth. A sharp crack of gunfire punctuated his words. “Eyes and ears only.”

Damian huffed but obeyed, tightening his grip on the ledge as he tracked the nearest duo. One mercenary paused beneath him, scanning the darkness with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Damian watched as the man gestured to his partner, the faint click of his rifle audible even from above.

“Hold,” Jason’s voice growled.

Damian’s muscles tensed, his ribs aching with every inhale. He waited, watching as Jason stalked into view like a predator. With a low whistle—sharp and commanding—Jason signaled Damian to act.

Damian dropped like a shadow, landing silently behind the second mercenary. In one fluid motion, he snatched the man’s comms earpiece, jammed his hand over the rifle to redirect it, and delivered a precise strike to the base of his neck. The man crumpled to the ground as Damian twisted the rifle from his grasp and disabled it.

The first mercenary whirled, raising his weapon, only to be greeted by Jason’s rifle butt slamming into his sternum. Jason followed up with a swift knee to the gut, dropping the man before he could utter a warning.

“Nice and quiet,” Jason muttered, stepping over the unconscious body. He fixed Damian with a look, and it was like something shifted in his body. Like a realization of some sort.

“What is it, Hood?” Damian asked, scanning the edges of the buildings. The man shrugged, going back to his work as if nothing was wrong. 

Damian scowled but said nothing, returning to the shadows as Jason moved ahead. He continued tracking the pairs, their numbers thinning with each calculated strike. Damian’s heart raced, each moment of restraint pushing his discipline to its limits. He spotted another group converging near a cluster of merchandise.

“Hood, six targets,” Damian murmured. “Two guarding the crates, four patrolling the perimeter.”

“Good. Keep eyes on the ones by the crates,” Jason instructed. “Wait for my signal.”

Jason approached the patrol, dropping two precision shots from his rubber-coated rounds before the remaining pair could react. As the last two turned to face him, Damian saw his opportunity. He launched a small throwing blade, striking the rifle of one guard. The mercenary flinched, providing Jason the split second he needed to incapacitate him with a rifle strike.

The remaining guard hesitated, torn between the shadowy figure above and the man barreling toward him. He chose wrong, swinging his weapon toward Jason. Damian’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, but Jason didn’t need the help. With ruthless efficiency, Jason disarmed the man and drove him into the ground with a bone-cracking kick.

“Crates are clear,” Jason grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. He glanced up toward Damian, who lingered on the edge of the roof, scanning for stragglers. “Now, let’s make sure that buyer doesn’t walk away.”

They circled the area again, but it seemed all traces of the crates were gone, snatched under their feet as if the shadows themselves had swallowed them up. The only weapon they managed to snag was the singular gun, coated in an oily sheen.

Jason clicked his tongue, scanning the crates with a trained eye. “No serial numbers, no codes, nothing. Just a wooden crate. Oracle – anything on the cameras?” He stared at Damian for a moment — hovering over him like he was unsure whether to say something or not before Oracle’s voice broke through.

 “No. Looks like someone looped the footage – whoever this is, they knew what they were doing. Knew where everyone was going to be stationed, and took advantage of the chaos. We’re lucky we even got the outfitted phase guns. Regroup.”

Jason nodded, taking time to sigh and lean against a wall, leaning his head against the brick wall. “Hey kid, are you doing okay?” There was a softness in his voice, and Damian’s face flushed, thankful his hood hid his features well enough. 

“Affirmative,” Damian replied, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on his feet. The pain was there, as present as the ground between his feet and the low rumble of distant cars. But, pain in Gotham felt different than it did in the arid desert that he grew up in.

It was as if Damian was finally allowed to feel it. 

“You really scared the shit out of us earlier,” Jason paused, cracking his knuckles. “I… know the League, kid. Differently than you did. But, if I know one thing, it’s when someone’s hiding pain.”

Instantly, Damian leaped to his feet and stood in front of Jason, giving him a withering stare. No one escaped the League except if they left in a body bag. Yet, here stood his superior, crossing his arms as if they were discussing the weather.

“Explain.” Damian asked, attempting to keep his voice even. 

“Ohh, so how the tables have turned, huh? Suddenly you’re asking about me. Well, if I’d known it was you under those layers, I would’ve—” Jason cut himself off with a huff. Then, Damian realized all those looks that Jason had, that emotion that often held in his eyes that Damian couldn’t name.

It was guilt.

“You. You were there. You were that masked figure — mother’s… ‘pet’. I… I fought you,” Damin asked, suddenly remembering the mysterious figure that Damian had only briefly met years ago.

The man whose reflexes were quick and whose strikes were hard. The man who had quickly shown Damian his place. 

Jason turned his mask away, his body language taut like a tightrope. “I… I didn’t know I was fighting a child. Talia— she said that I was fighting…her best. Her best work.” The man’s voice was trembling— as if he was unraveling right in front of Damian’s eyes. “The way you fight. I- I didn’t see it the first time. It was… hard to stay conscious at that time. Like everything was a walking dream. No, a nightmare. I should have gotten you out, questioned why the assassin I was fighting was so goddamn smal—” 

“Hood.” Damian interjected, eyebrows furrowed. “You could not have saved me.”

Jason whipped his head around, hands clenched into fists. “I should have known. If I had… who knows what could have happened.” He sighed again, voice heavy and splintered. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not waste apologies on me. I would not have left.” Damian didn’t know how to comfort the man. How to turn words into comfort. He only knew broken bones and cutthroats and injuries. “You saved yourself.”

Jason scoffed, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at Damian a moment longer. “ Saved me? What is there to save? God, I left you there to rot!” Jason pulled at his helmet, almost like he was going to chuck it at the wall. He sighed, sliding down the wall to sit down. “Sorry, I...wrong time, and place.” 

Damian blinked, feeling something pull and twist at his heart. He walked over, sitting down next to Jason with a grimace. “Continue. We haven’t gotten any calls in yet.”

Jason glanced at Damian, hands playing with themselves as if he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to start. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city. Finally, Jason leaned back against the wall, the hard lines of his face softening in the dim light.

“You know,” Jason began, his voice quieter now, “They changed me when I left. I became just…a shell of rage. ‘The Arkham Knight’ — tt. Don’t let them change you. 

He looked at Damian, his eyes scanning the boy’s face as if searching for the pieces of himself he knew were there. “I see it in you—the training, the discipline, the weight of their expectations. And the way you carry it… like you’re trying to prove something. To them. To yourself. To everyone. But, you’ll kill yourself if you continue doing that.”

Damian opened his mouth, but Jason put up a hand, shaking his head. “And don’t say something about that being all who you are. Because it isn’t. You may not have…a favorite ice cream or hoodie or animal – but that doesn’t make you any less human. What they did to you, the way they tried to shape you—it doesn’t have to be your whole story. Trust me, I know how hard it is to claw your way out of that. But you can.” Jason glanced up, the night sky reflecting in his helmet’s eyeslits.

Damian didn’t respond, but something had shifted in him. The weight on his shoulders felt a little less crushing, the shadows of Gotham a little less suffocating.

Chapter Text

The training chamber was silent, save for the hum of energy coursing beneath the sleek, metallic floor. Cool, artificial light bathed the room in an almost sterile glow, casting sharp shadows across Damian Wayne's tense form. His katana gleamed in his grip, the weight familiar yet pressing. Across the chamber, Talia al Ghul stood with arms crossed, her posture regal, eyes sharp as daggers.

"Again," she commanded, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Damian tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening. His muscles ached from hours of relentless repetition, yet he didn’t falter. The targets before him—a series of holographic adversaries—flickered to life, their forms crackling with simulated menace. He lunged, his movements precise and rehearsed. Each strike was clean, and each block was flawless.

And yet, when the final hologram appeared—a towering figure resembling Batman—his blade hesitated mid-swing.

A fraction of a second passed, but it was enough. The floor beneath him buzzed angrily, and then the electricity struck.

White-hot pain seared through his body, forcing him to his knees. His katana clattered to the ground, the metallic clang echoing harshly. The room dimmed as the holograms deactivated, leaving only Damian and Talia in the oppressive silence.

"Failure," Talia said coldly, stepping forward. Her heeled boots clicked ominously against the floor, each step measured and deliberate. "You hesitated. Speak."

“You made it look like him,” Damian stated, catching his breath as sweat dribbled onto the metallic floor. His voice was raw and cracked – Damian couldn’t remember the last time he was permitted to speak. His body trembled with effort as he stood up, picking his sword up and steadying his stance.

“A weapon never hesistates. A sword never stops slicing past a target’s trachea. A bullet does not simply stray from it’s path. What you did is unacceptable.” Talia’s voice rang out, as definitive as an executioner’s axe. Damian resisted the urge to flinch as he heard her go back to the platform.

The moment the floor surged with electricity, it was as if the air itself turned to fire. A sharp, searing pain shot through Damian's feet, crawling like molten tendrils up his legs and into his core. His muscles seized, locking in place as if an invisible vice gripped every fiber of his being. His breath caught in his throat, his lungs momentarily paralyzed, leaving him gasping for air.

The current was merciless, radiating in relentless waves, each one worse than the last. His fingers twitched involuntarily, the katana slipping from his grasp as the sensation overwhelmed him. His vision blurred at the edges, colors smearing together like a cruel watercolor painting.

When the electricity finally ceased, it left a lingering ache, a throbbing reminder of his failure. His body trembled uncontrollably, his limbs weak and unsteady. Yet even through the haze of pain, Damian forced himself to rise but collapsed into a heap on the floor.

But when he looked to the platform, he saw Dick standing over him, gaze hard and filled with disappointment. Tim sat on a chair, hand hovering over the control panel, eyes gleaming with amusement. Jason stood, spitting at Damian’s form with disgust he reserved for the worst of Gotham.

The worst of all?

His father wasn’t even there.

Damian woke up with a jolt, gasping for air that didn’t seem to enter his lungs fast enough. He sat up in bed, his breath still ragged as the phantom pain of the electricity lingered in his limbs. The cool darkness of the manor was a far cry from the harsh light of the training chamber, but it wasn’t comforting. His chest ached with an invisible weight, the nightmare clawing at the edges of his mind like a specter he couldn’t shake.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bandaged feet touching the cold floor. Sleep was impossible now. The room felt suffocating, every shadow a reminder of what he had endured—and what he might become. Quiet as a whisper, Damian slipped out of his room and into the vast, labyrinthine halls of Wayne Manor.

The house was eerily silent, save for the faint creaks and groans of the old building settling. The moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the polished wooden floors. Damian moved with a practiced stealth, his steps measured and deliberate, though he wasn’t sure where he was going.

It had been a long time since Damian had had one – most nights he passed out straight from training, but the soreness in his knuckles protested. He glanced at the Batcave but shook his head. The idea of his feet being on the mats, even if they weren’t close to the steel floor of the League, still sent shivers down his spine.

Damian briefly considered knocking on Tim’s door, but he pushed the idea aside. He wasn’t some child in need of comfort, of someone to come and read him to bed. He paced around the empty halls, his footsteps filling the empty large space with quiet noise. He found himself drawn to the backyard of the Manor, where leaves gathered in small layers where Alfred had yet to rake them, and flowers gathered the midnight dew. The trees moved and swayed with the guidance of the wind, and here, Damian could almost forget about the sting of pain he had long grown accustomed to.

Softly, in the garden's silence, Damian turned over the last couple of days in his mind. He had felt split open and exposed so many times, each day a new aching wound was revealed, and no matter what, he was still left feeling stung and wounded. 

Then, he heard it. A soft mewing in the back ends of the garden pierced the quiet night air like a sword. Damian stood up, creeping up to the noise, trying to stifle the curiosity lingering in the back of his mind like a pest. 

There, along the edges of the iron fences, stood a small kitten, matted and covered in grime, its eyes were a sharp yellow. It’s grey hair stuck up on all ends. Damian glanced around, but there were no other noises, other than the kitten’s soft mews.

Damian backed up, intending to leave the creature to its fate. It would survive. Grow stronger. If he was in the League, he would have…

But, his mind flicked back to the creature as it sniffed his feet curiously, eyes twinkling in the pale moonlight. His heart churned and his hand shook as he extended it out, scars stretching like the tale of an asteroid. But he stopped before his hands could rest on the kitten’s fur.

He was going to hurt it. That’s all he was good for. 

Dick had tried to get him to do other things; photography, reading, cooking, even gymnastics. But, it never gave him the same feeling as what he was made for. The feeling of stones dropping in his stomach, the hairs standing up on his arms.

But the kitten protested, rubbing its dirty body against Damian’s sweatpants, Tim’s old ones, with a fiery determination. And Damian stood, running to the kitchen to fetch some canned tuna and a bowl of water. He ran back, heart racing as he placed the meal in front of the cretin.

Aethol, Damian’s mind provided.

But he pushed it back, squashing the thought underneath his feet. Attachments, small or large, were not going to help his endeavors. If his mother – or father caught him feeding such a creature, a creature whose life held no meaning, he could not imagine what they might force him to do.

He stood silently, staring down at the kitten as he bit his lip. But he forced himself to walk away.

So, he walked away, shoulders curled up to his ears, hair sweeping down his back. And sat, alone in the Batcave, gazing up at how the shadows consumed the light, how each dribble of water sent echoes thundering down the edges of the rock walls.

“Damian,” said a voice, softly, calling out to him. He froze on the bench, feeling shame trickle down his body like water. He turned, spotting Dick, leaning on the entrance towards the Cave. He wore a tank top and jeans, and his car keys were still hanging from his index finger.

He was supposed to come home this morning.

“What– what’re you doing up so early?” Dick asked, finding a spot on one of the benches. There was no judgment in his voice, no criticism. Only curiosity and kindness. Though his eyes flicked back to the training mats – the first time they had officially met.

Sometimes Damian would run his fingers over the scar.

“I…Exploring the grounds more. Observing.” Damian said, quietly. He almost wished that Dick wasn’t here – so that Damian could be alone, isolated, turning over his thoughts and allowed to be a monster. “What…what do wish for me to do?” 

Dick sighed, placing his keys on the metallic bench and resting his forearms on his knees. “Dames, I just wish for you to exist without someone telling you to. For you to…be okay with being yourself for a little while.”

Damian stared down at the floor, feeling his gut twist in protest. His ribs no longer ached, but the ever-current linger of pain radiating throughout his back still loitered. “I…I do not like being just me.”

The cave seemed to swallow the words up in its cavernous space. Things were easier to say, once the sun had set, and the moon crept out from under the shadows. And, Damian found it easier to say things, once he felt the familiar sting of exhaustion beneath his flesh. 

“Dami…” Dick trailed off, eyes flickering with an emotion that Damian didn’t know. “You can’t…live for other people.” He laughed quietly, but Damian found that it wasn’t from happiness or joy. When Daian observed him closely, eyes trailing over to his loose body language, he realized how young the man looked. “When you live for other people, live just because you think that’ll…fix things — fix people…it’s a good way of making it hard to know why you’re actually alive in the first place.” When Damian glanced over to him, it seemed that Dick had forgotten he was even there in the first place, eyes glazed over to some faraway place.

Damian wasn’t a boy. And he was never, truly, alive. He was a weapon, a machine, a soldier. Under the guise of bronze-colored fresh, electrical currents ran through wires in his veins, and his breath was like the hum of an engine. He was not raised to be just alive. 

It was hard to know if Damian was ever alive at all.

But he was present for his team. To protect them. Even if it meant protecting them from themselves.

Damian got up, fists clenched as if attempting to ground himself, and he sat next to Dick, resting his head on the man’s shoulder. Dick stiffened, glancing down at Damian, before he sighed, his arm wrapping around the boy’s shoulders.

“Sorry, kiddo. Didn’t mean to, uh, dump it all on you like that. Wasn’t fair.” Dick said after a quiet moment. Damian glanced upwards, posture stiff, but not entirely uncomfortable. But he shook his head. 

“No need for apologies. You…” Damian paused, searching his brain for the right words. If only comfort was as easy as fighting. He shifted slightly under Dick’s arm, the weight of the man’s words settling in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to be the person who offered comfort instead of merely enduring it. But the way Dick’s voice had trembled, the way his eyes seemed to see something far away and painful—it made Damian want to try.

He straightened his posture, carefully shrugging Dick’s arm from his shoulders. For a moment, Dick looked startled, as if afraid he had overstepped. But Damian shook his head, his sharp green eyes narrowing with determination.

“You carry too much as well, Grayson,” Damian said firmly, his tone cutting through the stillness of the Batcave like a blade.

Dick blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I—”

“You think you must be everything for everyone,” Damian interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “That you are the glue that holds us together. But you are not required to be that for me, or for anyone else.”

The words felt foreign, clumsy even, as they spilled out of him. But the look on Dick’s face made Damian press on.

“You…you have already given me much,” Damian continued, his voice softening slightly, though it still held its characteristic edge. “You did not need to. I am not deserving of such…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Such devotion.”

Dick’s brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Damian raised a hand, silencing him.

“You are not responsible for repairing me,” Damian said, his voice firm but not unkind. “And you are not responsible for being everyone’s strength. You do not need to exhaust yourself for my sake, or for anyone else’s.”

Dick stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Damian’s surprise, he laughed softly, a sound tinged with both amusement and something heavier.

“Leave it to you to turn a pep talk into a lecture,” Dick said, his smile small but genuine.

Damian’s lips twitched, but he managed to suppress the faintest hint of a smirk.

Dick shook his head, his smile lingering. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll try to take my own advice. But, Damian…”

He reached out, resting a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder.

“You’re worth every bit of what I give you. And more.”

Damian blinked, not knowing what to do with the lightness in his chest. Gone were the memories of the nightmare, of Dick’s disappointed gaze and heavy-set tone. So, he simply nodded, leaning against the man as the two took in the quiet atmosphere nestled all around them.

Because that night, he sat in the cave with his brother. And that was the closest to being alive that Damian could ever get.

They sat together, staring up at the seemingly endless cavernous space above them, before Dick let out a yawn. Damian blinked, realizing the man had come from his apartment early to catch a bit of sleep before breakfast. Damian pushed against the man, brow furrowed.

“Go to sleep.” he said, pushing Dick to his feet. The man laughed, ruffling Damian’s hair with a grin.

“Oh, you’re telling me to go to sleep? C’mon, I’m not going till you at least try.” Dick smiled, but it withered away at the haunted look in Damian’s eyes. “Okay, okay then. See you in the morning, Dames. Don’t push yourself too hard this morning, alright?” Dick asked, walking away with his keys swinging on his fingers as he left Damian to his thoughts.

Damian sighed, waiting a moment before following the man, and wandering the corridors once more. His mind was drawn to the creature among the gardens, but he pushed the thoughts back forcefully. 

Damian wandered the halls like a specter, unsure of who to go to, what to do, and what he was, entirely. He often felt chained to his past, chained to what his future would be. Even the decisions he made in the present were more often not his own. 

Even his dreams were the result of others.

Damian found himself in Jason’s old room – a relic of sorts. The walls were covered in posters, and the bed was tightly made. Still changed the bedsheets, to avoid gathering dust in the weeks that Jason often left. 

When Damian thought back to the League, he remembered that masked figure — Jason. Though they met, often forced to fight against one another, with Damian in his metallic mask and hood, and Jason, with a helmet and a blood-red X across the top.., those were the few interactions that Damian had with those outside the League.

Well, except…

Damian shook his head, dissipating the memories with a huff of breath. It didn’t matter now. No matter how many times Damian looked to the past, it would not change anything. He found himself in the living room, nestled on the couch and playing with the fresh bandages around his hands. His mind urged him to train, to continue sharpening himself, but there was a resistance in his shoulders. 

Damian’s team had reprimanded him for his relentless onslaught of training, urging him to take a break, to rest. But their concern only fueled his resolve. If his efforts fell short of their expectations, then perhaps that was for the best. Failure, after all, was something he had been conditioned to abhor.

He sat in Jason’s room, rigid with frustration, until he heard it—a sound so faint it could have been mistaken for the wind. A low whistle, deliberate and familiar, cut through the stillness of the night.

Mother .

Damian’s breath hitched. He rose swiftly, padding silently to the window. The cool night air brushed against his skin as he slipped into the shadows of the manor, his movements practiced and precise. He moved like a shadow, following the noise until it led him to the rooftops of a nearby house.

His feet ached, the bandages torn and the gravel reopening old scabs and wounds. But there she stood, a silhouetted figure bathed in moonlight, her presence commanding as ever. Talia al Ghul’s face was grim, her sharp features illuminated by the pale glow. She stood with her hands on her hips, one leg outstretched in a stance of calculated poise.

Damian dropped to his knees before her without hesitation, the motion sending a sharp jolt of pain through his already sore body. He ignored it.

“Rise,” Talia commanded, her voice cold and precise, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Damian obeyed, his back straight and his chin lifted, though his muscles trembled with the effort of standing. In his mind, Damian was thankful he was not standing on anything metallic.

“What of your training?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “Speak.”

Damian swallowed the lump in his throat. “It continues,” he said evenly, though his voice betrayed a faint tremor. “I have pushed myself to the limit each day. Yet…”

“Yet you falter,” Talia finished for him, her tone cutting. “I can see it in your posture. Your spirit lacks the discipline I demanded of you.” 

“You live among weakness,” Talia continued, her words dripping with disdain. “Surrounded by those who coddle you, who dull your edge. You are my son, Damian. You are heir to something far greater than this—” she gestured dismissively to the manor looming in the distance, “—and yet you squander it. Speak.”

The words hit Damian like a blow, but he remained still, his jaw tightening.

“I have not squandered anything,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “I am prepared to prove myself.”

Talia studied him for a long moment, her piercing gaze unyielding. “Then prove it,” she said, stepping closer. She reached into the folds of her cloak, producing a blade—a short, curved dagger that gleamed in the moonlight.

Damian’s heart sank, but he stepped forward to take the weapon without hesitation.

“Show me that you have not forgotten who you are,” Talia said, her voice quieter now but no less commanding. “Show me that you are still my son.”

The test was grueling. Under the moon’s cold light, Talia attacked with a ferocity that left Damian struggling to keep up. Every strike, every parry, pushed him further toward his breaking point. His body screamed in protest, his vision blurring with exhaustion, but he forced himself to continue.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Talia disarmed him with a swift, precise motion. Damian fell to his knees, the blade skittering across the concrete.

“You have grown soft,” Talia said, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Do not let them weaken you further.” She paused, turning to look at Damian over her shoulder. “Do not forget what happens if you fail.”

Damian’s chest heaved as he looked up at her, his expression a mix of defiance and desperation. He nodded, trying to keep the nausea from rising in his throat.

Talia stared down at him for a moment, then turned on her heel, disappearing into the shadows without another word.

Damian remained kneeling on the rooftops long after she was gone, his body trembling from both exertion and the weight of her words. When he finally rose and made his way back back towards the Manor, it was nearly morning.

As he crawled through Jason’s window, his heart ached for movement. But, he knew that even if he were to train, it would not be beneficial. His muscles ached with every swing and motion, and he felt moments from falling over.

He found himself in front of Tim’s door, unsure as to why he felt the need to seek out the teenager. Normally, Damian would refute the idea of bothering a superior with trivial needs. But there was an ache in his heart, a feeling that didn’t quell no matter how many times Damian fought against it.

Carefully, he opened the door, spotting a lump entangled by thick blankets, the blinds pulled taut. Immediately, Damian realized his mistake. He did not need comfort like he was a child — Mother was right. He quickly grabbed for the door, but not before the boy groaned, sitting up in his bed and rubbing his eyes.

“Damian? Is that you?” He asked, his voice still scratchy and rough from his newly interrupted sleep. “What’s wrong, bud?”

“Nothing. I simply was checking on your status, was all.” Damian said quickly, embarrassment creeping up towards his ears.

Tim squinted, his sleep-addled brain struggling to process Damian’s presence in his room at this hour. He rubbed at his face again, dragging a hand through his messy hair before sighing and leaning back against his headboard.

“Checking on me? At...what, five in the morning?” Tim raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with disbelief. 

Damian hesitated, his hand still on the doorknob, torn between leaving and staying. His pride and his upbringing screamed at him to retreat, to maintain his carefully constructed facade, but the gnawing ache in his chest refused to be ignored.

“I...” He stopped, frustration bubbling to the surface as he struggled to find the right words. His fingers tightened on the doorknob. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted finally, his voice clipped and reluctant. “That is all.”

Tim blinked, clearly surprised by the admission. He sat up straighter, his concern growing as he took in the tension in Damian’s posture and the faint tremor in his voice.

“Come here,” Tim said softly, patting the edge of his bed.

Damian stiffened, shaking his head. “I do not require your—”

“Just sit,” Tim interrupted gently, cutting through Damian’s protest. “I’m not going to interrogate you, okay? Just sit.” 

Damian nodded, perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, as though unsure whether he deserved the comfort offered.

Tim, sensing his hesitation, turned to face him again. “You look like you’re about to bolt,” he said lightly, though his eyes softened. “Relax, Damian. You’re safe here.”

Safe. The word echoed in Damian’s mind, foreign and strange. He swallowed hard, his body tense, but he allowed himself to sink a fraction deeper into the mattress.

As Tim reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Damian’s back, Damian flinched involuntarily, the movement sharp and immediate. Tim froze, his eyes widening in concern.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tim said quickly, his voice soothing. He pulled his hand back slightly but kept it hovering nearby, hesitant to make Damian uncomfortable. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Damian cursed himself silently for the reaction, his fists clenching at his sides. “It was nothing,” he said stiffly, his voice brittle.

Tim didn’t push, though his gaze lingered on Damian with quiet understanding. “Alright,” he said softly, giving him space. Instead, he adjusted the blankets and leaned back again, creating a cocoon of warmth around them.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady rhythm of Tim’s breathing. Damian felt the ache in his muscles more acutely now, the stinging reminders of his mother’s “lesson” making it difficult to sit still. When Tim shifted slightly, brushing against his side, Damian had to stifle a wince, his jaw tightening against the wave of pain.

“You’re hurting,” Tim said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

Damian shot him a sharp look. “I am fine.”

“Damian.” Tim’s tone was gentle but unwavering. Damian curled his shoulders, feeling the blood begin to soak through his tank top and hoodie, but he couldn’t leave. Not when Tim had directly ordered him to stay. So, Damian remained silently, staunching staring at how the morning light trickled in, allowing some more visibility in the otherwise dark room. The hallway light cast small shadows through the slit in the door.

“Is–Is that blood?” Tim asked, sitting up suddenly as his hand brushed against a particularly deep gash on Damian’s side. The boy dove for his lamp, flicking it on, his eyes widening in horror as he stared at the blood-red stains on Damian’s hoodie and the cuts soaking through his sweatpants.

Tim’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of Damian’s battered form. The blood had seeped through the clothing, staining the fabric a deep, angry crimson. His wide eyes darted from the wounds to Damian’s face, a mixture of shock and concern etched across his features.

“Damian,” Tim said, his voice tight, “what the hell happened?”

Damian stiffened, his jaw locking. He turned his gaze away, unwilling to meet Tim’s eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said tersely. “A minor... disagreement during training.”

Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression darkening. “Training doesn’t do this,” he snapped, gesturing toward the bloodied hoodie. “Who did this to you?”

Damian’s silence spoke volumes, and Tim’s stomach twisted as realization dawned on him. He didn’t need to hear the name to know. It was written in the tightness of Damian’s posture, the flicker of pain in his eyes.

“She came here, didn’t she?” Tim asked softly, his tone no less firm despite the gentleness of his voice. “Talia.”

Damian’s shoulders tensed, and he finally turned to face Tim, his expression carefully blank. “It was a lesson,” he said, his voice even, though the slight tremor betrayed him.

Tim swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He reached out again, his fingers brushing against Damian’s sleeve. This time, Damian didn’t flinch, though his muscles remained coiled tight.

“You didn’t need this,” Tim said firmly. “No one deserves this.”

“I am the heir to the Demon’s Head,” Damian replied, his voice sharpening as he straightened his spine. “Weakness cannot be tolerated. She was right.”

Tim’s heart ached at the conviction in Damian’s tone. He shook his head, his grip tightening on Damian’s arm. “She’s wrong,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Damian, this isn’t strength. This is abuse.”

Damian’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing. “You do not understand,” he said defensively. 

“I understand more than you think,” Tim shot back, his frustration clear. “I’ve been pushed to my limits too, Damian. But this? This isn’t about making you stronger. It’s about control.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Damian’s breathing was shallow, his hands balled into fists on his lap. Tim softened his tone, letting go of Damian’s arm to give him space.

“Let me help you,” Tim said quietly. “Please.”

Damian hesitated, his pride warring with the vulnerability clawing at him. His gaze flicked to the floor, then back to Tim, who was watching him with unwavering determination.

Finally, Damian nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. Tim exhaled, relief washing over him as he moved to grab the first-aid kit from his desk.

“This is going to sting,” Tim warned gently as he knelt beside Damian and carefully peeled away the blood-soaked fabric. Damian gritted his teeth but didn’t flinch, his gaze fixed on the wall.

As Tim cleaned the wounds, his hands steady but his expression tight, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger at Talia. How could a mother do this to her child? The thought made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to focus on Damian.

“You’re stronger than her,” Tim said softly as he worked, his words deliberate. “Not because of her lessons, but because of who you are. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, Damian.”

The younger boy remained silent, his expression unreadable, but Tim noticed the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. When he finished bandaging the worst of the wounds, he leaned back, meeting Damian’s gaze.

“You’re not alone,” Tim said, his voice firm. “Remember that.”

Chapter Text

Damian woke to a dull ache radiating from his side, a bruised reminder of his encounter the night before. The room around him was unfamiliar, dimly lit by the pale spring sunlight filtering through thick curtains. Tim’s room.

He shifted carefully, wincing as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His ribs protested the movement, but he grits his teeth, ignoring the pain. Weakness was intolerable, even now.

The faint hum of voices drifted from the hallway, low and indistinct. The manor was awake. Alfred’s steady steps could be heard moving about, punctuated by the faint clatter of plates and the occasional sound of Bruce’s deeper tone, sharp and direct as always.

Damian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had stayed in Tim’s room out of necessity, but the thought of facing the rest of the family now felt unbearable. The memory of Tim’s concerned expression gnawed at him, as did the betrayal of allowing himself to be seen in such a state.

He forced himself to stand, the effort costing him a sharp intake of breath. He made his way to the door, careful to keep his footsteps silent. If he was going to face them, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of thinking he was fragile.

Damian glanced down at his arms and legs, wearing only his tank top and boxer shorts. His body, slathered in bandaids and bandages, covered the areas in which Damian failed to protect his body. He crept towards his room, opening the closet to throw on a long-sleeved shirt, a sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans. 

Damian knew that he could afford to mess today up. He would not be weak.

The dining room was a picture of the quiet morning routine. Alfred moved with precision, laying out breakfast on the long table—an assortment of eggs, toast, fruit, and steaming coffee. Bruce sat at the head, scanning the news on a tablet, his expression unreadable as ever.

Tim and Dick were already seated. Tim glanced up first, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Damian’s stiff movements. Dick followed suit, his easygoing smile faltering as he noticed the tension in the youngest Wayne’s posture.

Damian emerged towards the dining room, giving a small nod to Dick and his father, avoiding the worried gaze of Tim, sitting down. 

“Master Damian, would you like me to make you a plate?” Alfred asked, craning his head as he dutifully made more slices of French toast. 

Damian shook his head, thankful that there wasn’t the smell of meat to turn his insides out.  He reached for a slice of toast, ignoring the way his hand trembled slightly as he did. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their concern pressing down like a physical force.

Bruce broke the silence, his voice calm but direct. “How was patrol last night? From what Jason and Tim told me, you did excellent.” 

Damian’s jaw tightened. “It was…acceptable.” His mind flicked back to the mistakes he made during battle, the vulnerability that left him feeling raw and exposed. Couldn’t he last just one day without being a burden to his team? All he did was mess things up.

Mother was right.

Bruce nodded, cutting into the french toast as the others resumed their conversation, although Tim’s eyes flickered towards him anxiously.

“Should I tell him? Or are you going to?” Tim’s voice cut through the chatter like a shard of glass and Damian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Dick whipped his head around, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned forward.

“Tell me about…what?” Bruce’s voice cut through the tension, his eyes lifting from the tablet to fix on Damian.

Damian felt his insides freeze into ice, knowing full well that he could not lie to a superior – his commander. Not about something like this. “Mother came last night. Regarding my performance in Gotham.”

“Wait, Talia visited the manor last night? What the hell?” Dick’s voice was sharp and full of worry, his eyes flickering back and forth between Tim and Damian.

Tim shook his head, clenching his utensils with enough force to turn his knuckles white. “Not only that — but she had ‘training’ with him. He came back all injured and–and cut up.” 

The words landed like a bomb, and for a moment, no one spoke. Damian shot to his feet, ignoring the pain that lanced through his side.

“May I be excused?” He asked fists clenched at his sides. Anger roared in his ears, but he pushed it back. Pushed all the emotions of fear and anger and the deep ache in his chest far, far away. 

“No.” Bruce’s voice was sharp, full of anger. When Damian looked up, his face was full of pain, his food abandoned on his plate. He looked at Damian, his expression unreadable but his eyes searching. “Sit down.”

With a stiff nod, he lowered himself back into his chair, his movements sharp and jerky. Bruce leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We’re going to talk about this. All of it.”

Damian stared at his plate, refusing to meet his father’s gaze. The betrayal burned in his chest, but beneath it, there was something else—something far harder to face.

The study was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Damian stood stiffly in front of Bruce’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest. His bruises, faint in the warm lamplight, betrayed the impact of the previous night’s events.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled as he studied his youngest son. His face was calm, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw hinted at the storm beneath.

“You’re not going to see her again,” Bruce said, his voice steady and unyielding. “I’m increasing security around the manor and the gates. You may not sneak out to see her.”

Damian’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he said nothing. He felt a storm rage inside his body, blood rushing in his ears, and anger flushing his face. But, for a moment, for the briefest of moments, Damian felt something else.

Relief .

Bruce regarded him from across the desk, his expression unreadable, though his piercing gaze lingered on the faint bruises along Damian’s jawline and wrists. He tapped his fingers once against the polished wood, a rare sign of hesitation.

Damian didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. He met Bruce’s gaze with steady resolve. “Understood,” he said. His tone was neutral, measured, almost militaristic. “But she is my m–superior. If she believes that my training is…ineffective, why not hear her out? ”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Superior?”

“Yes.” Damian straightened further, his voice firm but respectful. “She relays commands, gives me directives, sets me on objectives. That is why I am alive. The training she offers is unparalleled. It is demanding, yes, but effective. She knows my weaknesses better than anyone. If I’m to become the weapon you need me to be, I can’t afford to miss this opportunity.”

Bruce’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “You’re not a weapon, Damian.”

“That isn’t entirely true.” Damian’s voice was even, devoid of emotion, as though he were presenting a fact rather than an argument. “You’ve trained me for the mission. This is the next step.”

Bruce stood, his movements deliberate as he circled the desk to stand in front of Damian. “What she’s doing to you isn’t training. It’s abuse . And I won’t let it continue.”

Damian tore his eyes away, feeling his eyes burn as he clenched his fists. Abuse – the word confused him. It was normally used to refer to behavior done to people or animals, those treated with cruelty or violence.

But Damian was never a person at all. 

Damian didn’t think of himself as a boy, not really. Boys had souls, laughter, and dreams; he had none of these things. He was sinew and calculating, a blade sharpened too many times, its edge brittle and prone to cracking.

Inside, he imagined himself as hollow—gears grinding against one another, sparks igniting in the void where a heart might have been. When he spoke, his voice felt like the static hum of an engine, efficient and cold. If someone touched him, they wouldn’t find warmth, only the chill of steel beneath his skin.

Sometimes, he felt a spark of something. A lightness, a tightness, the feeling of emotions that rose from that empty darkness in place of his soul. But that did nothing to change the metallic taste in his mouth; copper not from blood.

“If destruction is what it takes to build something stronger, then it’s a price I am willing to pay.” His voice rang out; hollow, devoid of something else.

In the moments as Damian followed his fath– his commander towards the study, it was like a sudden realization. An evolution from a creature to a machine. That his superior was right, that he had grown weak in the softness of their warmth. 

Their hugs and their touch and their laughter solidified in him a false hope for dreams. Damian ignored the small voice within, that animal-like creature that yearned for love, for security, and pushed it further in.

“Show me what she did to you,” Bruce’s voice cracked, and only when Damian looked up, did he realize the man was on the verge of tears. Damian’s breath hitched, but he nodded a smooth, motorized motion.

He pulled off his tops, goosebumps rising in his skin when the bandages hit the cold air of the office. Bruce turned away, hand to his mouth as if on the verge of throwing up. Damian stared ahead, eyes flicking towards the ground. 

“Is that what happened to your back?” Bruce asked, voice splintered and dry, eyes flickering to meet Damian’s. 

Damian nodded curtly, his gaze fixed on a faraway point just beyond Bruce’s shoulder as if focusing too closely on his father’s face would unravel something tightly wound inside him. Bruce’s gaze wandered his back and arms, focused on the remnants of a map drawn in violence.

“Yes,” Damian said evenly, his voice devoid of inflection. “Mother corrected my form. I was…unprepared for the intensity.”

Bruce’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his expression a storm of anguish and fury. He stepped forward, his voice low but sharp, like the crack of a whip. “This is not correction. This is brutality . Damian, this—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “This should never have happened.”

Damian’s jaw tightened as he straightened his posture, ignoring the sting as the motion pulled at the wounds. “Pain is a necessary component of growth. It’s a lesson I’ve been taught my entire life. If my body cannot endure this, then I am not worthy of the mission. You’ve told me as much.”

Bruce froze, his eyes widening as though Damian had struck him. “I’ve never—” he began, but his voice faltered. He searched Damian’s face, trying to understand the boy standing before him—a boy whose face betrayed the scars littering his body.

Damian’s expression remained impassive. “I can’t allow weakness to compromise the team. To compromise you. ” His voice softened slightly, the closest he came to vulnerability. “I won’t be a liability.”

Bruce’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Damian’s words settling over him like a shroud. He reached out a hand, hesitating before letting it drop again, as though he didn’t know how to bridge the chasm between them. “Damian,” he said, his tone gentle but firm, “you’re not a liability. You’re my son.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked away, his gaze falling to the cuts on his arms. They were easier to look at than the raw emotion in Bruce’s eyes. “Permission to leave, sir,” he said, his tone clipped and formal.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his hands falling to his sides in defeat. “Granted,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

Damian turned on his heel, his movements precise and controlled, every step calculated to hide the tremor in his limbs. As he left the study, Bruce sank into his chair, his head in his hands, the image of Damian’s battered back seared into his memory.

Damian walked from the study, feeling his body burn like every part of him had been set on fire before. He had never admitted this part of his past, his confidential information. His spine had been his own – his fault, his own mistake. It was not–

“Hey Dames. You feeling up to some ice cream?” Tim asked softly, hand pulling on Damian’s shoulders before he ascended the wooden stairs. 

“It was not your information to tell. That was… confidential.” Damian whispered, voice raw.

“...I don’t care if you hate me,” Tim replied, Damian glancing up at him with sharp eyes. “I don’t. You can hate me for as long as you want. But, I don’t care, as long as you’re safe. Safe from her.”

“The ‘damage’ has already been done. You cannot ‘fix’ everything. I am…not your brother. I am not a child. And I’m not some project that can be fixed with some–some soft words and hugs and sleep. I will, and always have been, a weapon. You cannot change my programming.” Damian’s voice came out fast and hard, his eyes frantically searching Tim’s face, as if waiting for the teenager’s acceptance. He gestured to himself like his entire existence was a mistake. “I am constantly reminded of my failures. My inadequacies in my thinking, my experiences. ”

My body, Damian reminded himself. 

“Damian–” Tim started, but Damian jerked his head once more. “Can I…at least change your bandages?”

Damian’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides. He turned away again, his voice robotic and monotone. He nodded, taking a seat on the stairs as Tim walked away to grab a first aid kit from the kitchen.

When he returned, Damian was shirtless, his bandages on his ribs gone, only leaving behind yellowed bruises and purple veins. His body was covered in small knicks, cuts that Talia had caused. 

Tim peeled away the bandages, grimacing at the dried blood that collected in the soft cotton of the dressings. He wiped away the collected blood with an alcohol wipe, eyes focusing on the long surgical spine along the boy’s back. It was raised, with precise stitches and scarring – it was as if something had been ripped out. The mark was unmistakably deliberate—straight and unnervingly clean, its edges puckered slightly with the evidence of a harsh recovery.

Tim’s fingers trailed over the spine, Damian flinching as his warm skin met Tim’s cool fingers. “You don’t have to change any part of yourself. We’re not asking for that. But…your thinking, your behavior towards yourself…it’s hurting you, Dames.” Tim’s voice was soft as a whisper, peeling a dressing and placing it on a part of Damian’s upper arm.

Damian remained silent, closing his eyes as he felt the cool alcohol pad washing over his injuries. He had never had someone take care of him like this. At the League, he stitched himself up, bandaged himself, peeled away the plastic edges of bandaids, and wiped away his blood.

He got used to the pain of stitches and alcohol, the sting of peeling away sweaty clothing that had stuck to fresh injuries on his body. 

“This scar. Did Talia do this?” Tim asked, working reverently on every injury on Damian’s upper body. When he got to the injury on Damian’s side, he hesitated, glancing towards the boy to catch his reaction. 

Damian sighed, feeling the memory press against him, as heavy as Tim’s hand as he worked to clean the deep laceration on his side. 

‘You don’t have to tell me everything. Just…try one thing.’

“ No . It was…my own fault. A failure as a result of my own limitations,” Damian said quietly, a confession of sorts. 

It didn’t relay anything confidential that might have harmed the League. It simply told his team – his ‘brothers’ that he had a lot of work to be done. 

“You say that you’re a failure, that you’re a soldier in need of training, a weapon that needs to be whetted. But all I see, is my little brother, a nine-year-old kid, who needs a break. Whatever they told you, if it results in…this, that’s not training. That’s abuse and manipulation.” Tim said, his voice calm, determined. “You can argue against me all you want, Dames. But the way I see it, you don’t need to beat a child in order to prove a point.”

Damian’s shoulders stiffened, the words landing with more weight than he wanted to admit. He felt the phantom pain again—not from Tim’s touch or the alcohol cleaning his wounds, but from something deeper, something buried beneath muscle and bone. A twisting ache that came not from injury, but from what had been taken, added, and stolen from him.

The spine was a constant reminder. Every movement, every twist of his body brought an awareness of the foreignness etched into him. It wasn’t his . Not truly.

Tim’s hand brushed against his shoulder, grounding him. “You don’t have to talk about it. But I need you to know you’re not a failure. You’re not some…machine built to follow orders. You’re a person, Damian. You’re my brother, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Damian’s throat tightened, but he said nothing. The idea of being human, of being family felt distant. A concept he could observe but never touch.

Tim worked quietly, finishing the last of the bandages before sitting back on his heels. He hesitated, glancing down at his hands. “I’m sorry if I overstepped earlier. I just… I needed to do something. I didn’t know how else to help.”

Damian stood, his movements sharp but precise, the tension in his body coiled like a spring. He grabbed his discarded shirt, pausing for a moment before pulling it back on. His voice was low when he spoke, each word deliberate.

“I do not need your apologies,” he said. “I need your actions. If you wish to help me, then leave me to my training.”

Tim looked up at him, his expression unreadable. “I’ll stay out of your way when it keeps you safe, Damian. But not when it means you’ll hurt yourself again.”

Damian flinched, his hand brushing the hem of his shirt. The memory of cold steel and sterile lights flickered in his mind. He turned away, ascending the stairs without another word, leaving Tim behind on the landing.

But as he climbed, Damian's hand brushed against the small of his back, over the raised scar that told its own story. He clenched his fist, swallowing the bitterness that rose in his throat.

When he arrived at his room, he spotted Dick sitting against his bed, eyes trailing over the blank walls and simple room. He hadn’t gotten decorations since his outburst with Jason. He rarely stayed in it, opting to save it solely for sleep.

But, Damian almost wished he had something to fill the blank walls and shelves. Others had posters and trinkets and toys and hobbies – something to fill that space inside of themselves. To distract themselves from the yearning and the vacuum. Tim had his posters of Batman and video games, sparkling drinks, and graphic novels. Dick had posters of ‘The Flying Graysons’ and stuffed animals and Superman. 

What did Damian have, other than the Katana that was responsible for half of his injuries?

“Hey,” the man greeted, attempting a smile despite the tense atmosphere. Damian gave him a nod, sitting down next to the man as he stared at the wooden floors and cream-colored walls. “You okay?”

“Drake aided my injuries,” Damian explained, rolling up his sleeve to reveal fresh plasters. Dick nodded, his throat tight with unspoken words. 

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Dick whispered, holding his head in his hands. Damian blinked, suddenly feeling like a rock rested in his stomach. “We’re supposed to protect you. And…and instead, you’re taking the weight of all of this. All these years, you just took it. 

Damian stiffened at Dick's words, his hands curling into fists against his thighs. He didn't know what to do with the rawness in Dick's voice, the way it seemed to crack under the weight of guilt and regret. Apologies always sat uneasily with him—like they were hollow, or worse, undeserved.

"I do not deserve empathy," Damian said flatly, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. He kept his gaze fixed on the wooden floor, unwilling to meet Dick's eyes. "I do not require protection. I never have."

Dick sighed, scrubbing his hands down his face before dropping them into his lap. "There’s no such thing as ‘deserving’ empathy, Dami. Or sympathy. You’re a kid. That means that you shouldn’t have had to handle things alone.”

Damian flinched, the words striking too close to truths he didn’t want to examine. Alone. He had always been alone, even when surrounded by people. Even when standing next to his mother, her hand resting on his shoulder like an iron brand. He didn’t know how to explain to Dick, that solitude was not something he endured—it was something he was.

“You don’t understand,” Damian said, his voice low, almost bitter. He looked up, his green eyes sharp but shimmering faintly with something more fragile. “I am not like you. You are… human. You were loved. You grew up with joy and light and care. I—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing it back into submission. “There is nothing to save.”

Dick reached out, his hand hovering just above Damian’s shoulder before he let it drop. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “You might not believe it, but you’re more than the things they told you, more than the things they made you do.”

Damian’s chest tightened, the words stirring something buried deep, something that felt too much like hope and therefore too dangerous to touch. He shook his head. “Words cannot undo what has been done.”

“No, they can’t,” Dick agreed, his tone firm but gentle. “But actions can. And we’re here, Damian. We’re not going anywhere, no matter how much you try to push us away.”

Damian stared at him, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the room felt too small, the air too heavy with emotions he didn’t know how to process. He stood abruptly, moving toward the window.

“Do not waste your energy on me,” he said, his back to Dick. “Focus on your missions, on those who are worth saving.”

“You are worth saving,” Dick said firmly, rising to his feet. “And I don’t care how many times I have to say it before you believe me.”

Damian didn’t turn, his fingers curling against the windowsill. The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering like stars in the distance. For a moment, he let himself imagine that Dick’s words might be true—that he might be more than the sum of his scars and failures.

But the moment passed, and Damian pushed the thought away. He had too much to do and too many ways to prove himself.

“Goodbye, Grayson,” he said, his voice clipped but quieter than before.

Dick hesitated, then nodded, understanding the dismissal for what it was. “Goodbye, Damian. I’ll see you at Lunch.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Damian remained by the window, his reflection faintly visible in the glass. His eyes trailed to the scar on his forearm, the stitches at his side, and the faint shadow of his metallic spine beneath his shirt.

He pressed a hand to the small of his back, feeling the faint ridge of the scar beneath his fingertips. It wasn’t his story to tell—not yet. 

So he sat, alone in his room, the weight of untold stories and horrors resting on his shoulders. 

Sometimes, in the quiet of his dreams, he dreamt of a reality in which he woke up, posters and artwork covering the walls, the house full of laughter and animals. He would come down for Breakfast, Dick ruffling his hair and stealing pancakes from other’s plates. His father would smirk, Tim would laugh with his booming laugh, and Damian would smile an actual smile. Jason would be reading a book, quiet in his amusement. They all would pass around plates, grinning at each other.

Tim would turn to him, the smile fading as he noticed the tears spilling from Damian’s eyes, asking what was wrong. And yet, Damian would betray nothing. Because as soon as he did, it would all be over.

And then, Damian would wake up, a clock set to a rhythm that would kill him. A weapon honed so much that it would eventually break. 

He did not deserve them. The guilt would not purify the blood on his hands. Their smiles, love, and warmth would not erase his scars. In the end, he was still a killer. He still completed every mission with the same ruthless efficiency that he was praised for. Damian didn’t need fear toxin to tell him of nightmares, horrors, brutality, or cruelty. 

He was still a machine. Just one that was called ‘little brother’.

And silently, in isolation that felt so cold, but yet comforting, the boy let himself cry. Just once.

Damian's tears fell silently, the soundless weight of them as heavy as the burden he carried every waking moment. His hand remained on the small of his back, pressing against the faint, foreign ridge as if it were the source of every ache in his body and mind. The cold, impersonal feeling of it grounded him in a way he hated, a tether to the reality he wished he could escape.

The room around him remained as barren as ever, save for the faint, muted light filtering in through the curtains. It was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that stretched time and magnified every thought in his head. His breath hitched once, but he quickly stifled it, swallowing down the emotion that clawed at his throat like an animal desperate to escape.

He didn’t sob. He didn’t shake. Even as tears streaked down his face, Damian remained unmoving, staring blankly at the floor. It wasn’t grief or despair—it was emptiness. A numbness that seeped into every corner of his mind and left him hollow, detached from the world he barely felt a part of.

The dream, that cruel dream, echoed faintly in his mind. The warmth, the laughter, the familial love—it was like holding sunlight in his hands only for it to turn to ash. He didn’t deserve it. He knew that as surely as he knew the scars on his body.

The sound of his breathing was all he could hear now, slow and measured a forced calmness. He reached for the katana leaning against the wall, its blade as sharp as the memories it carried. He ran his fingers over the hilt, gripping it tightly. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in its cold predictability. It was something he could control, unlike the turmoil inside him.

He set the blade back down with care, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight he carried. Damian didn’t know how long he stayed like that, staring at the same patch of floor, tears drying on his face without him noticing. Time felt irrelevant.

Time would not ease his wounds, or the coldness within his body. That was how he went through life trudging through it, focusing on commands and objectives and directives and missions. 

Without it, he was nothing.

Chapter Text

Damian didn’t know how long he stayed in his room; time held no meaning when Damian was by himself. It was how he survived in that room, the concrete walls pressing in, the sun moving slowly through the small slits near the ceiling. But eventually, Damian knew that he needed to eat.

He couldn’t do anything without sustenance. The sound of a light knock on the door broke the silence, soft and hesitant. Damian didn’t move, didn’t answer. After a few seconds, the door creaked open slightly.

“Damian?” Dick’s voice was gentle, cautious. “Can I come in?”

Damian remained still, his head dipping slightly in acknowledgment. Dick stepped inside, carrying a tray of food, the door closing softly behind him. He approached slowly, as though Damian might shatter if he moved too quickly. Taking a seat on the floor beside his younger brother, and placing the tray on the bedside table, Dick didn’t say anything at first. He simply sat there, offering his presence without expectation.

“You don’t have to talk,” Dick finally said, his voice quiet. “But I want you to know I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Damian’s gaze remained fixed on the floor. He didn’t respond, but the faint tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction. Dick didn’t press further. He simply stayed, leaning back against the bed, a silent sentinel in the stillness of the room. 

He reached for the tray, chewing slowly as they sat together. “Hey. For Patrol tonight, you’re gonna be patrolling with me.” Dick smiled, turning his head. 

Damian’s attention flickered toward Dick, his eyes momentarily catching his older brother’s. There was something in the way Dick said it—an invitation. Not an order, not a demand, but a simple request. The weight of it hung in the air between them. It was an offer of connection, a chance to be something other than a machine, a weapon.

Damian didn’t know what to say. He had spent so much time avoiding them, refusing to let anyone see the cracks, afraid that if they did, they would realize the truth—that he wasn’t worthy of their attention, their concern. His heart twisted at the thought of it.

But Dick wasn’t asking for anything in return. He wasn’t asking for Damian to be fixed, to be better. He was simply offering his company, his partnership.

Damian had grown up with the rigidity of expectations, of missions, of life and death, and how he played into both. Yet, here Dick sat, extending a hand that didn’t expect one back. There was no expectation of being a little brother. Damian knew, whatever he chose, Dick would smile anyways.

Damian nodded slowly, the brief flicker of hesitation passing across his face before his gaze shifted back to the floor.

Dick didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he were processing the quiet acceptance, but when he spoke again, his tone was light. “Good. I’ll let Bruce know. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but it’ll be nice having you out there.”

Damian wasn’t sure what it was—whether it was the words, or the subtle shift in Dick’s demeanor, but something inside him eased. It wasn’t an overwhelming wave of relief, but it was enough. Enough to push him out of the isolation that had started to feel suffocating. 

“I think, rather than training today, you should try this,” Dick reached out to grab something from the back of his pants pocket – a simple journal and a mechanical pencil. “Kinda hurt to sit on. But, pain in the ass aisde,” Dick smiled, catching a small quirk on the boy’s face, “I think it’ll be good for you. And before you say anything, no, it’s not a command. Or a test, or… anything. Think of it like…training. You don’t have to think while doing it. Just…let your hand flow from one thing to the next. You don’t have to draw anything, of course.”

Damian blinked, setting down his plate as he took the journal from Dick. The idea of doing something, outside of missions and outside of training, was foreign.

Damian had never truly rested before. He filled his days with reading and researching, training, and patrol. But to do something, solely for the act of doing it? It seemed absurd. Damian ran his fingers over the leather cover, slipping the journal open to watch the dotted pages flash by.

Yet, there was something in Dick’s eyes that made Damian want to try. Not for himself. But for his commander.

The journal felt foreign in his hands. The pages, empty and vast, seemed to mock him with their open-ended possibilities. The mechanical pencil was light in his grip, the sharp tip resting against the paper like a question waiting for an answer.

Damian stared at the blank page, his mind a tangle of thoughts, none of which seemed to form into something he could grasp. The weight of the pencil felt heavier than it should, like a responsibility he wasn’t sure he could bear. The silence of the room stretched, the only sound the soft rustle of the pencil against the paper as he moved it, just a bit, tracing a line that didn’t mean anything.

Dick’s presence was steady beside him, a constant that Damian hadn’t realized he needed until now. He could feel the subtle hum of his older brother’s quiet breathing, the warmth of his shoulder just a breath away, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was just... there. Not demanding anything.

"Don't think about it too hard," Dick's voice cut through the silence again, soft but clear. "Just... let your hand move."

Damian didn't respond, but he tried. He let his hand guide the pencil, making small, hesitant marks on the paper. They weren’t much—just squiggles, lines, and a few shapes that didn’t make sense—but it was something. It was movement. For a brief moment, he felt like he wasn’t trapped by his thoughts, his restrictions, his mind.

Dick shifted beside him, still quiet, but there was a subtle sense of approval in the way he held himself. Like he knew something Damian didn’t, like he understood that small steps, however insignificant they might seem, could be a kind of progress.

The journal felt more natural in his hands now, the pages no longer mocking but instead offering a silent space where he could exist without being defined by the weight of his past, without being shaped by the expectations placed on him.

They were blank, an open slate. No expectations weighed on his shoulders, no dagger rested in the palm of his hand, and no body was slumped against his curved fist.

Damian drew a circle, then another, slightly off-center. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t symmetrical. 

But they were his.

"Yeah, that’s it," Dick said, his voice gentle, almost like a whisper of encouragement. "There’s no rush, no right or wrong. Just... be."

Damian’s fingers tightened slightly around the pencil, but he kept going. He let his hand drift across the paper, not looking for anything specific, just... moving. It was simple, in a way, and yet the act of doing it felt more complicated than it had any right to be. Each stroke felt like a small rebellion against the rigidity of his life—against the endless drills, the constant weight of expectation, the crushing silence when he wasn’t useful to anyone.

For a moment, Damian recalled Tim’s words. Living just because. Without a singular purpose.

He glanced over at Dick, whose attention was focused on the tray of food beside him. His expression was soft, his lips curling into a small, easy smile as he ate, oblivious to the storm that had been raging quietly within Damian.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” Dick smiled, Damian whipping his head to stare at Dick. “Right now, you’re creating . Whenever you feel like…you’re inhuman, or you feel undeserving of the people around you, or anything at all, I want you to draw. Draw your feelings, the people around you, the objects in the manor. You were made to be more than what they told you. Find out what that is.”  Dick’s voice was light, but it held an understanding Damian didn’t expect. 

Damian looked back at the page, his hand pausing in mid-air for just a second. He had no idea what he was doing. But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like a problem.

The journal was still there, its empty pages now filled with shapes, with traces of his thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it was his. And that small realization, that quiet acceptance, made the weight inside him feel just a little bit lighter

Damian nodded, glancing up to spot Dick’s expression – encouraging, careful. “I will…attempt this, to the best of my abilities.” Dick smiled, recognizing that the boy needed space, and began to start cleaning up the leftovers of the meal. 

“‘Course. Holler if you need me, or anything at all.” Dick closed the door with a click , and Damian picked up the journal, glancing around before starting to sketch out the scene in front of his window. Like training, he allowed his hand to flow from one part to the next. If he could hone his skills for this specific task, that meant that he could do more. More than what he had thought his life would turn out to be.

And, even for a small, minute instant, Damian finally felt alive.

Damian walked downstairs, journal tucked in between his body and his forearm, glancing at Tim, whose fingers methodically clicked away at his keyboard. Immediately, when craning his head to glance at whose footsteps were getting closer, the teenager clicked away from the tab.

All Damian could see was flashes of articles, code, and pictures of torn backs, and bloodied bodies. But it went away so fast, that Damian merely thought it was his imagination.

“Hey,” Tim said, a small smile on his face. It flickered between something akin to guilt and…fondness. Damian hesitated, gripping the journal as he debated between leaving. “What’s that?”

Damian blinked, feeling his face flush. “It is…I don’t know, entirely,” Damian admitted, his voice small and quiet. “But…do you wish to see it?” Damian asked, hesitantly, voice hitched. It was as if Damian was waiting for Tim to yell, to scream, for his face to contort into something cruel.

But instead, Tim nodded enthusiastically, gesturing for Damian to walk forward. “Dick comman– told me to try this. ‘Journalling’. I thought…The way you fight. I thought if I were to…visualize this to you, perhaps it could…improve our efficiency.” Damian’s words came out haltingly, carefully. 

Measured.

Tim opened the journal to the bookmarked pages, eyes scanning over the small drawings and notes. Instantly, he could tell this was not the same kind of notations that Damian often scribbled down in notebooks or the margins of paper – this was the type of notes done from pure observation. His eyes scanned the sketches – sketches of him. Small notes on form, on things Tim didn’t even notice about himself.

‘Drake always protects his upper left side; Drake always inhales before he strikes; Drake tends to go for the largest mercenaries first.’   

“I…” Tim felt his eyes water as he took in his brother. His face was still hesitant, but soft. Tim recognized the work for what it was. 

An apology . 

“I didn’t think anyone…noticed these things,” Tim smiled, flipping past sketches of himself, of him grappling down an alleyway, of his suit.

Tim didn’t think that anyone noticed him. 

Damian stood still, watching Tim carefully as he flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the sketches and notes. Damian’s heart pounded, each beat a reminder of the tension between them, a lingering ache from their last confrontation. He wanted to say something, but the words felt stuck, trapped behind the walls he had built around himself.

Tim’s hand faltered slightly as he turned the page, his eyes wide with surprise at the accuracy of the observations. He stopped on a page where Damian had sketched a moment from their last mission, Tim taking down a group of thugs in the alley. There was a note beside it, a simple observation: ‘ Drake always checks the corners before engaging.’

“I didn’t think anyone… noticed these things,” Tim repeated quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He blinked rapidly, trying to push back the sudden rush of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. “I… I didn’t think anyone ever paid attention to me.”

Damian’s throat tightened. He felt the sting of guilt rise again. He hadn’t meant for Tim to feel unnoticed, but amid his anger and frustration, he hadn’t stopped to think about how his actions—his silence—had affected his brother. He had always been so focused on his pain that he hadn’t realized how he may have failed to protect his brother.

He had failed his objective. But he would try again. But Damian would try harder.

“I do. The others do.” Damian said quietly, sitting on a nearby bench, disregarding the flash of pain as he focused on Tim's face. “You wanted to take care of me. And, instead of recognizing your intentions, I... became fixated on the consequences of my actions.”

Tim looked up from the journal, his gaze soft but intense. He was silent for a long moment, processing the weight of Damian’s words. Then, without hesitation, he placed the journal gently on the desk beside him, his hands reaching out to Damian.

“Thank you,” Tim said, his voice steady but tinged with something deeper, something vulnerable. The two stared at each other, unspoken words lingering in the air as Damian played with his hands. 

“Do…Do you know where Todd is?” Damian asked, standing up as Tim wiped at his eyes. 

“No, no. He’s been…MIA ever since that patrol.” Tim said softly, offering Damian the journal back with trembling hands. Damian nodded stiffly, turning to leave before Tim stood, wrapping him in a tight, backward hug.

It wasn’t restricting, or claustrophobic, or scary. “I love you so, so much, kiddo. More than you know.” Tim whispered, digging his head into Damian’s hair. Tim’s whisper, soft and full of sincerity, reverberated through Damian. It was the kind of affection that was foreign to him, something he had always avoided or tried to suppress. But in the embrace, Damian found that the warmth wasn’t suffocating. It was comforting, steadying.

Tim’s embrace lingered for a moment longer, and then he slowly released Damian, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You know,” Tim said, his voice a little brighter now, “you don’t have to keep all of this to yourself. We’re in this together, alright?”

Damian nodded stiffly, his throat tight as he tried to respond, but the words seemed to evade him. The apology he wanted to give, the guilt he still carried from their earlier conflicts, weighed heavily on him. But something in Tim’s expression—something in the way he looked at Damian as if nothing had changed as if they were still brothers—made the pressure in his chest feel just a little less suffocating.

Damian’s shoulders loosened, and his hands came to squeeze Tim’s arms, wrapped around his chest. “Hey… Damian,” Tim began, his voice almost shy now, “I know you think you need to do everything alone, but you don’t. Not anymore.”

Damian’s gaze flickered to Tim’s hand on his sleeve, his breath hitching slightly at the sincerity in Tim’s words. Despite everything, despite the walls he had built around himself, Tim still saw him. He still reached for him.

“I’m not going anywhere either,” Tim added softly.

Damian’s mouth felt dry, but he gave a small nod, a barely perceptible shift in his posture. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Acknowledging, even if it wasn’t in the way Tim wanted. Still, it was enough for now. Damian wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at that moment, he didn’t feel so alone anymore. Even if he couldn’t quite grasp the fullness of it, something had shifted between them, something that felt like it could be the beginning of healing.

With that, he stepped away, the weight of Tim’s words still pressing against him as he made his way to the door, the journal still clutched tightly in his hands.

The city was alive with shadows, the murmur of distant traffic blending with the occasional shout or siren. Perched on a rooftop, Dick and Damian surveyed the streets below, their capes fluttering faintly in the wind. The moon hung low in the sky, its pale light casting long, eerie shadows that stretched across Gotham's alleyways and rooftops.

Damian glanced at Dick, who sat perched on the edge of the rooftop, eyes constantly scanning the roads like a predator watching for movement in the brush. They had been at this for hours, yet Dick showed no signs of slowing. He radiated a calm energy that Damian found both irritating and oddly reassuring.

Damian was still reeling from the man’s style. He attacked as if gravity did not affect him, flipping and rolling with impossible fluidity, his movements more like dancing than fighting. Damian had seen it earlier that night when they took down a group of armed thugs in a back alley. One man had swung a lead pipe at him, and Damian had prepared to block it when Dick swooped in, cartwheeling over the man’s head and disarming him mid-air. 

Then there was how he fought for Damian, almost instinctively. When danger loomed too close, Dick would intercept strikes that Damian could have handled himself, his ever-present grin accompanied by some cheeky remark.

“Watch your back, kid. Can’t have you ruining my winning streak,” Dick had said earlier, a playful smirk tugging at his lips even as he dispatched three opponents at once.

It was… perplexing. Damian didn’t understand why someone would fight that way, taking unnecessary risks, and smiling even when surrounded. There was no strategy in such recklessness—yet it worked.

The eerie calm of the night shattered with a deafening roar as Killer Croc smashed his way out of a warehouse below. He charged into the open, his massive frame looming like a beast from the depths of Gotham’s sewers.

“Time to shine, Wraith,” Dick said, flipping off the rooftop and landing with a practiced roll. Damian followed suit, staff in hand, his mind still lingering on the man’s unconventional approach.

Croc was relentless, hurling crates and smashing through debris like it was paper. Damian moved with precision, aiming strikes at Croc’s joints, while Dick darted around him like a mosquito, landing hit after hit to distract the brute.

Damian and Dick worked to slow the criminal, attempting to slow him down using his large size. Amid the fight, Damian spotted a shadowy figure, but it seemed to disappear as soon as Damian craned his head to take a peek. 

Then, he felt it. A cold brush of air along his back, as if someone had dunked him in cold water. Damian froze, Croc’s roar brought him back to reality just as the brute’s claws arced toward him.

“Wraith!” Dick shouted.

Before Damian could react, Dick was there, his escrima sticks deflecting the blow at the last second. The force of the strike sent Dick skidding back, but he managed to plant himself firmly between Damian and Croc.

Damian shook his head, gut-twisting in guilt and shame as he internally chided himself. He needed to be faster. Better. He couldn’t afford distractions—not now, not with someone like Croc on their tail. But the feeling lingered; a cold sensation that gnawed at the edges of his focus.

Dick, grinning through the impact, didn’t seem fazed at all. “You okay, kid? You look like you saw a ghost,” he teased, his voice light, but Damian caught the underlying note of concern. Dick’s eyes were still locked on Croc, ever watchful, never letting his guard down.

Damian snapped back into the fight. The momentary lapse in concentration had cost him a chance to land a clean strike on Croc’s knee, but it wasn’t too late. He couldn’t afford another slip-up.

Croc roared again, his massive hands sweeping toward Dick, but the man was already moving, twisting through the air and using the brute’s momentum against him. He cartwheeled behind Croc’s back, landing lightly before launching into a backflip, catching Croc’s arm mid-swing with both Escrima sticks. The impact caused Croc to stumble, and Damian seized the opportunity.

Damian used Croc’s stumble a window to slice at the creature’s stomach, flipping back before the man whipped his sharp tail around. Croc roared, charging at Dick with a speed surprising for his size, but Dick flipped over the creature effortlessly, the creature pausing before he whipped around.

Croc crawled on all fours, grabbing a nearby wooden crate and chucking it at the pair. They both jumped away, with Dick landing on a nearby fire escape and Damian grappling to sit on top of a nearby streetlight.

Croc began to crawl up the fire escape, bending the metal like a child bending plastic. But Dick smiled, dropping down and sending all his force onto Croc’s face, the creature falling to land on his feet, thick green blood oozing from his face.

“Need a bandaid for that?” Dick asked, smiling at Damian. Damian opened his mouth, but the creature whipped around, grabbing the light-post with a sickening crunch , Damian jumped into a roll before Croc chucked it toward the warehouses lined up in the distance. Instantly, the creature turned, using his tail to narrowly miss Damian, who backed up. 

Dick whistled, smiling when he dodged the creature’s swing, using the momentum to jump into a kick. When the creature’s head whipped back from the blow, Dick jumped in, throwing blows at the creature’s stomach. When the creature rose to smash downwards, Damian used the motion to jump on the creature’s back as he leaped from the top of one of the buildings. 

Instantly, Croc crumpled, groaning as he remained on the ground.

Dick landed beside Damian, giving the young hero a nod of approval. “Nice work, Wraith,” he said, his voice warm despite the intense battle they’d just fought.

Damian didn’t reply immediately. He was still processing the strange sensation he had felt earlier—the shadowy presence that had slipped through the cracks of his focus. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the distraction. There would be time for that later.

As the two left the scene after having dealt the the GCPD, they perched on a nearby rooftop. When Damian was with Dick, it was different—strangely lighter, as though the weight of the world had been lifted, if only for a fleeting moment. It was the quiet gift of being allowed to exist without the constant pressure to perform, to prove.

In those moments, there was a sense of peace, a stillness that wasn’t suffocating. It was a rare and unspoken freedom, a small solace amidst the storm of his thoughts. Yet, even then, a part of him longed—longed for Dick to simply tell him what to do, to give him purpose beyond the silence of his own uncertainty.

It reminded him of the boy.

His time in the League, a blurred tapestry of agony and isolation, was something Damian never spoke of aloud. There was no clarity in that era—only pain, a deep ache that seemed to consume him. He often felt as though he were adrift, a single vessel tossed on an endless, unforgiving sea, the waves battering his fragile boat, dragging him further into the abyss. But then, there was the boy. That broken, cracked voice, like a distant call from beyond the darkness, reached him through the cold, sterile walls of the fortress he’d been trapped within.

“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?” It was a whisper, weak yet unmistakable. Damian, lost in his own desolation, had heard it as he honed his sword in the quiet of his room.

And in that stillness, he had answered—his voice barely a breath, muffled through the mask that was both shield and prison. “No.”

The two of them, trapped in their separate worlds of silence and shadows, exchanged few words—small fragments, tiny reminders that they were not forgotten. That they still existed in the same space, even if they were not allowed to be more than echoes of one another. Each word, each breath, became a lifeline—a thread of connection, frayed but still intact, amidst the suffocating walls that separated them. If the boy heard Damian get thrown in when his blood would pool around him on the concrete floor, he would ask Damian after a couple of moments; waiting to see if anyone was listening.

Damian heard it, through the fog of pain, through the blood seeping from his leg, as clear and cut as glass. A soft whistle, one so faint that Damian had to crane his neck towards the vent just to hear it.

And Damian, sitting up, the mechanical mask tightening around him once more, would whistle back. It was sharper, more of a tremble. But it was there.

The boy never betrayed anything about his past. Sometimes, he would hear the door clang open, the boy ripped from his cell as Damian sharpened his sword. Sometimes the boy would fight back, screaming things incoherently. Other times, the door would rip open, and it would be so still and silent, that Damian thought the boy was dead.

The boy was so untethered; So angry, punching the walls until his knuckle-bones broke, and Damian would hear the muffled screams through the singular, small slit that connected their rooms. A small vent, barely enough to stuff one’s arm through.

But it was a small portal, a muffled one, but enough.

When the boy was taken away, the last time that Damian had ever heard of him, he said only one thing.

“Dad,” his voice quiet, barely understandable. It was a confession of sorts, the type said by those on their deathbed. The rest of the noise was the dragging of the boy’s shoes against the ground.

“Hey. What’s on your mind?” Dick’s voice broke through the film in Damian’s mind, sharply pulling him from his past. Damian glanced at the man, now standing next to Damian as his eyes scanned the cityscape.

“Reflecting,” Damian provided. 

Dick gave him a sideways glance, his tone light but knowing. "You do that a lot for someone your age. What's going on in that head of yours, Wraith?"

Damian shifted slightly, uncomfortable with how easily Dick seemed to read him. His gaze was drawn to the neon glow of Gotham's distant skyline, the city never truly sleeping, just waiting, pulsing with a restless energy.

"I was thinking about... someone," Damian admitted after a moment of hesitation. His voice barely rose above the wind, but Dick caught it, his smile softening.

"Someone from your past?" Dick asked gently, taking a seat next to him on the edge of the rooftop.

Damian nodded but didn’t elaborate further. The boy. That fractured part of his life that had always remained locked away, buried beneath layers of steel and bloodshed. The League had been a hell of its own making, and that boy had been a casualty of it. A shadow in his memories that lingered despite his attempts to push it back.

Damian had never told anyone about the boy. Not even to his mother, although she never commanded him to. So perhaps, that did not count.

Still, Damian reflected on the constant warmth that Grayson was for him—a beam of sunlight that never faded, its golden touch lingering even in the darkest corners of his heart, where shadows once held sway. It was a light that had no reason to burn for him, yet it did, unwavering and steady, like the soft glow of a distant star that burned brightly despite the cold, the miles, and the years. 

And though Damian had learned to guard his heart with walls of stone, that warmth still seeped through the cracks, a silent reminder that not all things in this world were destined to decay, that some things could endure the hardest winters.

“There was…someone in the League with me. Not a tutor, not Mother, not another assassin. A…prisoner in a cage. I do not know where he was located. Only that, like me, he was often beaten and taken.” Damian whispered, not being able to look at Dick’s face.

Dick sat quietly beside him, his gaze following the distant lights of Gotham, the city's pulse a low hum beneath them. The wind tugged at his hair, and Damian could feel the weight of his presence, both comforting and probing. He didn’t rush Damian to continue. Instead, Dick’s quiet patience seemed to fill the space between them, a gentle pressure that encouraged honesty without demanding it.

Damian's words hung heavy in the cool night air, his eyes unfocused as he stared ahead, the memories he tried so hard to bury resurfacing like ghosts. He swallowed hard before continuing, his voice lower this time, barely more than a breath. “He would whisper to me. We had… a call. To ensure the other was still alive. I do not know how this began.” Damian paused, his jaw tightening as if the memory physically hurt him as if his past were an old wound that had never truly healed. “Before he was taken, he called for…his father.” 

Dick sat there, still, letting the weight of Damian’s confession settle between them. His heart ached for the boy Damian had been, for the years of torture and isolation that had shaped him into the person he was now. But he also felt something else—pride. For the fact that Damian could share this with him, that he could face the past, even for just a moment, and not turn away in fear.

"I’m sorry, Damian," Dick said softly. His voice was steady, but his heart was raw with emotion. "I’m so sorry you had to go through that. But you’re not trapped in those walls anymore." 

Damian’s eyes flickered briefly toward Dick again, but he didn’t respond. His gaze was distant, the darkness of the night reflecting the darkness within him. The boy’s ghost still lingered there, in the corners of his mind, in the places he couldn’t quite escape. But with Dick beside him, Damian wasn’t as alone as he had been all those years ago.

Still, a part of him longed for something that felt like redemption. Something that could replace the silence of his past, the ache that never truly went away.

“I wish I had asked for his name,” Damian’s voice was low, so quiet that a breeze could have taken it away. But Dick heard it, pressing closer as he rubbed the boy’s back in slow, soothing circles.

“You were there. With him. You were both…trapped in something I can’t comprehend. But you were there together.” Dick’s eyes softened, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something quieter, something far more serious. He could see it in the way Damian sat, tense, still processing everything, as though he were still living in that cell, still haunted by that boy’s call for his father. 

The city stretched out before them, Gotham’s lights flickering in the distance, a reminder that the night was far from over. But for now, in this small corner of the world, there was something that felt... different. Something softer, quieter, more human. 

Chapter Text

Tim sat hunched over his desk in the dimly lit room, the glow of multiple monitors reflecting in his eyes. The case file lay open before him, a maze of digital breadcrumbs and cryptic leads. A half-empty can of soda rested precariously near the edge of the desk, and the spill of chips across the maple surface went unnoticed as his fingers moved in a flurry over the keyboard.

CASE NUMBER: #405 – N0V0719
TITLE: Project Nexus
STATUS: In Progress

REPORTS:

March 27th - Current: Missing Persons Case (1 of 7)  ←
April 15th: Experimental Phaser Technology - Old Gotham
April 15th: Fear Toxin-Coated Weapons - Ace Chemicals
April 20th: Rogues Spotted - Old Gotham

LOADING. . .

LOADING. . .

AUTHENTICATING. . . 

OPENING FILE

---

CASE NOTES ( Pg. 1 of 7 )

Summary

On the evening of March 27th, Doctor Elias Varos was reported missing by his wife, Cynthia Varos , after failing to return home from work. Dr. Varos was last seen leaving his clinic on 15th and 7th, Old Gotham, where he worked as a biomedical engineer specializing in prosthetics and nanotechnology.

Background: 

Dr. Varos has a documented history of unusual disappearances, each followed by vague explanations upon his return and an increase in cash spending. In several instances, GCPD's inquiries were hindered by his refusal to cooperate.

He was the lead researcher on " Project Nexus ," a classified endeavor funded by an anonymous anonymous investor. Nexus focused on developing integrated neural-linked prosthetics and nanotechnology designed for military applications. Notably, Nexus’s funding ceased abruptly six months prior to his disappearance, leading to speculation about unauthorized continuations of the work.

---

Evidence

1. Camera Footage - 15th and 7th Intersection (March 27) - Timestamp shows Dr. Varos exiting his clinic at 7:42 PM on March 27th. He appears to look over his shoulder multiple times as if being followed.
• CAM_INTERS_0327-1942_VAROS_EXIT.AVI
2. Camera Footage - Gotham Harbor (March 27) - Grainy footage from a shipping yard camera captures a figure matching Varos’s build boarding an unregistered cargo vessel. The vessel departed under cover of night and appears on no maritime logs.
• CAM_HARBOR_0327-2B_UNID.FIGURE.AVI
3. GCPD Interview with Dr. Varos (November 14, 20##) - In an unrelated case involving a break-in at his clinic, Dr. Varos exhibited nervous behavior.
• GCPD_VAORS_NOV_14_15:07.AVI
4. Recovered Device - "Phaser Prototype" (April 15) - A small, unmarked device recovered in Old Gotham resembles experimental technology linked to Project Nexus. Initial analysis suggests the device has been modified to emit electrical pulses strong enough to incapacitate a large target.
• IMG_APRIL_15_FR_TXN.png

Attached Files

1. Unregistered Financial Transactions - Anomalous transactions have been traced to accounts under Varos’s name, with large sums transferred to offshore holdings.
2. Anonymous Witness Report - Old Gotham - A local shopkeeper reported seeing "a man fitting Varos’s description” in the company of three shadowy figures, who allegedly referred to him as "the Doctor."
3. Recovered Correspondence - A partially destroyed letter addressed to "E.V." found at the Ace Chemicals site references "Phase II" and "augmentation trials." While the sender remains unidentified, forensic analysis confirms the handwriting matches that of Dr. Varos

CLOSE REPORT ←

---

Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed at his eyes. 

His mind drifted back to the shadowed figure he spotted while patrolling around Old Gotham the other night, hoping that it was either an enthusiastic fan and not another vigilante popping up.

Tim took a long sip from his soda and leaned back, rubbing at his temples. His mind churned as he clicked through a recent breakthrough: The financial records tied to Project Nexus's foreign backer had an uncanny overlap with funds flagged during a fear toxin weapons bust at Ace Chemicals.

He pulled up a side-by-side comparison, his eyes darting over the details. A single name caught his attention, repeated across several transactions: ​​Halventia Corporation.

"Halventia..." Tim muttered, spinning a pen between his fingers. He ran a quick search through Wayne Enterprises' records. The name triggered a flag. Halventia Corps. had attempted to bid on a cybersecurity contract six months ago, only to vanish after being outbid.

"This is bigger than I thought," Tim murmured, typing furiously to cross-reference Halventia Corporations with Varos's offshore accounts. 

Just as Tim began piecing together a timeline, his phone buzzed beside him. A message from Dick lit up the screen:

"Hey, we're grabbing Damian and Jason to hit the mall. You’re coming too. Family bonding time—no excuses."

Tim groaned and slumped back in his chair. “Perfect timing, Dick. Just perfect.”

As much as he wanted to bury himself in the investigation, he knew better than to blow off Dick’s attempts to get the family together. Still, the nagging feeling that he was onto something tugged at the back of his mind. He set his computer to run a deeper scan, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.

"Family bonding and conspiracies," Tim muttered with a wry smile. "What could go wrong?"

The plaza was alive with the hum of activity, a chaotic symphony of distant chatter, shuffling feet, and the occasional laughter echoing off the polished tile floors. Neon signs buzzed faintly above brightly lit storefronts, each one competing for attention with glittering displays of fashion, tech, and novelty items. The air carried a strange mix of scents: buttery popcorn from the cinema, the sugary allure of a nearby candy store, and the faint tang of leather from a high-end shoe boutique.

Dick led the way with his easy stride, his hands shoved casually into his jacket pockets. Jason followed a few steps behind, his leather jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking over the crowd with a quiet wariness that suggested he was here under protest. 

Tim walked beside Damian, his phone in one hand as he scanned the surroundings, already mentally cataloging the best places to drag his brothers. Damian lagged slightly, his sharp green eyes darting to every sound and motion, his shoulders tense despite the relaxed setting.

“Okay, first off, sweet treats for lil D’,” Dick smiled, throwing an arm around Damian’s shoulders, which immediately earned him the boy’s frown.

“Sweet treats do not offer as much nutritional balance to one’s diet as much as —” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. They’re full of added sugar and carbs and goly me, but they increase my happiness by at least 110%.” Dick smiled, dragging Damian towards a bustling ice cream shop, the smell of syrup and cream filling the air.

Damian wrinkled his nose, but obliged, lining up behind a small family as his eyes scanned over the several dozen flavors of the iced desert. 

“If you get anything other than Neopoltan, you guys are actually insane,” Jason smiled, eyes crinkling with amusement despite the tenseness in his shoulders. His eyes flickered over to Damian’s, and he quickly turned his head, face flushing.

Tim rolled his eyes, tucking his phone in his pocket before replying, “Who the fuck likes strawberry ice cream? If you think that a milkshake isn’t the best thing to get, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“ I’m getting the Batman flavor, dark chocolate with brownie bits,” Dick smiled, taking out his platinum card as the group approached the counter. Damian frowned, feeling overwhelmed by the amount of choices.

It baffled him that his choices held weight; what he answered for what he wanted for dinner, who he wanted to shadow for patrol, what game he wanted to play.

Damian hadn’t considered the idea that he was being considered a person with choices to make.

Tim patted his shoulder, leaning down to whisper, “If you don’t want to choose, just have some of my milkshake.”

Damian nodded, amusement pulling at his lips as soon as Dick leaned over to take a sip of the milkshake. Tim’s eyes immediately widened and he snatched it away, face pulled into something resembling horror.

“Tim-tim, you better give another me a sip of your milkshake. I paid for it,” Dick smiled, eyebrows furrowed as the attendant handed over a disposable cup. Damian did not add that Dick asked Father for his card before they left.

Damian watched as Tim handed over his milkshake to Dick, face slightly disgruntled, the easy banter between them making him feel oddly out of place. He’d never experienced anything like this—these moments of casual enjoyment and camaraderie—before. His life, always colored by discipline and duty, hadn’t left much room for... anything else.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Dick asked, grinning at Damian, his voice teasing. “What are you getting?”

Damian hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the endless array of ice cream flavors. There was so much. His mind briefly returned to the mission—a constant undercurrent of focus. But he pushed it aside for the moment. For once, this wasn’t about work. It was supposed to be... normal.

“Fine,” he muttered, his fingers tapping against the cold counter. “I’ll take the vanilla bean.” His voice was low, almost reluctant.

Jason snorted beside him. “Vanilla? Lame. But whatever, man, you do you.”

Damian shot him a glare, but there was a faint trace of amusement in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him feel lighter, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

The attendant behind the counter slid the ice cream across to Damian, and he accepted it with a small nod. It was a strange feeling, accepting something so trivial—yet it felt almost... grounding.

The flavor was creamy and immediately melted on his tongue, subtle, and sweet yet not overwhelming. It was…pleasant.

As they moved away from the counter, after having tipped 50% for his brother’s dramatics, Dick slung an arm around Tim’s shoulder. “All right, what’s next, genius? You’re the one who knows all the good spots.” He took a bite of his ice cream, making a point to lick all around his mouth to Jason’s disgust.

Tim raised an eyebrow, pulling out his phone again. “Well, I was originally going to suggest going by a clothing store, especially since some people don’t believe in keeping up with current trends,” Dick scoffed, rolling his eyes and nudging Damian, “But there’s a technology store that sounds like it would be fun.”

The group nodded, with Dick and Tim taking the lead and Jason and Damian falling behind. Jason sighed, scratching the back of his neck as his jade eyes flickered towards Damian hesitantly. “Hey kid, I…I’m sorry about how I behaved on Patrol a couple days ago. I shouldn’t have needed to depend on you to make me feel less guilty.” 

His voice was uncomfortable and tight as he avoided looking into Damian’s searching eyes. He quickly bit into his cone, his fists tight against his leather jacket as they continued walking behind the others, who were engaged in a very animated argument. 

“The apology…was unnecessary. One cannot control when the past decides to…resurface. Do not berate yourself for sins already forgiven,” Damian said finally, his hand tightening around the cup of ice cream. 

Damian had become all too familiar with his past being brought up or coming to light in front of the others. They were too stark of a contrast to his past – while they had game nights, or arguments, Damian had spent weeks on the brink of starvation for failing to eliminate a target. 

He knew they all had their shadows, they were just two broken souls passing through the darkness together. Damian could not blame him for how the man coped.

Jason paused, then nodded, accepting the forgiveness for what it was. He coughed, clearly wanting to change the topic, but unsure of how to do it smoothly. “You enjoying the manor? Bruce isn’t giving you shit, right?”

Damian glanced at him, unsure of what the others had informed Jason about his recent…childish outbursts. However, the way Jason was eyeing Damian’s arms, even if they were hidden underneath a flannel – Damian understood that the man knew more than he was letting on.

“It has been…acceptable. A…an adjustment to my time at the League, but nothing that I cannot handle,” Damian decided, walking inside the technology store. The hum of fans and electricity made his goosebumps rise, but he fought past the roll of his stomach as Tim excitedly looked at computer parts.

Dick was eyeing some gaming consoles, and even Jason looked to be slightly interested, although he hid it well. 

The air in the store buzzed with the low hum of electronics and the bright glow of LED displays. Damian trailed behind the others, eyes scanning every corner, every reflection in the glossy surfaces of monitors and televisions. His senses were always heightened, even now, when nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He was watching, waiting, without fully realizing it.

Jason lingered near a rack of gaming headsets, pretending to examine them. His eyes, however, darted periodically to Damian. The boy’s tension was palpable. Jason didn’t need to ask to know the kid was struggling to balance his instincts with this attempt at normalcy. He recognized the look—it was the same one he used to wear after coming back to Gotham, caught between the person he had been and the person he was trying to become.

“Hey,” Jason called softly, stepping closer to Damian. “Relax, kid. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Damian’s jaw tightened as if he didn’t quite believe him. The hum of electronics seemed to vibrate just beneath his skin, prickling at the edges of his awareness. He tried to brush it off, but there was an inexplicable discomfort lurking in the back of his mind—a faint pressure, like something wrong, was nudging against his senses.

Damian shook his head suddenly, his face pale. “May I leave the store?” he asked, his voice barely covering the tremble in his voice. Jason paused, then nodded, watching how the kid immediately rushed out of the store and took deep, large breaths.

Damian sighed, feeling his head reel and his stomach twist into knots. Normally, he was fine with technology, the hum of electricity, everything. But, for whatever reason, the quiet thrum of electronics, and the sight of interconnected parts, made his head swim.

Jason jogged out of the store, waving a concerned Dick and Tim away with a flapped hand.

Jason crossed his arms, his stance protective as he positioned himself slightly in front of Damian. He shot a warning glare at anyone who seemed even mildly curious about the pale, trembling kid leaning against the storefront. His focus shifted back to Damian, who was still breathing deeply, his head tilted back as though the open air could banish whatever storm was raging inside him.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s... nothing,” Damian muttered, his fingers brushing the back of his neck before he could stop himself. “I merely needed air.”

Jason leaned against the glass, studying Damian closely. The kid was pale, his breathing shallow despite his attempt at composure. Jason noticed how Damian kept shifting, almost imperceptibly, like he couldn’t quite find a position that felt right.

“Yeah, okay,” Jason said, his tone skeptical but not pressing. “Just don’t pass out on me, okay?”

Inside Damian’s head, the unease only grew. The hum had felt intrusive, grating like it wasn’t just around him but inside him. For a moment, he thought he felt a faint tug, almost as if his body wanted to move without him commanding it. He dismissed it as fatigue—or paranoia. But the thought lingered, a shadow in his mind.

“If you want to leave, we can. I’m sure that Dickwad and Timberlyn won’t mind getting more time to nerd out in there,” Jason’s voice contained the same gruff edge, but it was somehow… softer now. He knew not the push, not to inquire. Damian, he learned, was like a stray animal. He spooked if you pushed too hard, but if you let him come to you, it was easier that way.

“I do not wish to burden you,” Damian said, standing up, hiding a wince when the injury on his side protested.

“What, burden me with your presence?” Jason let out a huff of air, meeting Damian’s eyes as the man smirked. “If I didn’t want to hang out, do you think I’d let Golden Boy drag me out here in the middle of classic suburbia?”

Damian bit the inside of his cheek, but shook his head. He couldn’t burden his team with his issues constantly. He was sure they were getting tired of his acts, and he almost wished they would stop hovering around him like he was fragile.

If he couldn’t handle this one thing, how could he impress Mother?

“No, I am ready to join the others,” Damian nodded. Jason sighed, getting up and gesturing for Damian towards the store. 

But as they reentered the store, the familiar buzz of electronics greeted them once more, and Damian’s stomach twisted all over again. He gritted his teeth, silently willing himself to focus on his brothers instead of the oppressive hum that seemed to grow louder with every step.

Tim sighed as he got back to his room, dropping the gift bags onto the floor of his bedroom and flopping down onto his desk chair. Despite his initial hesitation at the hangout, Tim managed to get a couple of new clothes, and some more lenses for his cameras and even grabbed a journal, inspired by his little brother. Damian even managed to get out something other than hand-me-downs, which Dick managed to freak out about silently behind the dressing room doors.

The kid was uncomfortable with the sweatshirt, but initially justified it by saying he needed to, ‘Prepare more clothing for future endeavors,’ whatever that meant. And his stomach was still reeling from the bowls of Udon he had for dinner.

But Tim shook the memories from his mind, leaning forward in his chair as he prepared to sit there for the next couple of hours. Patrol was fun, but it didn’t mean squat if he couldn’t piece anything together.

As Tim clicked on the file, he spotted new information, most likely added by Bruce recently regarding his version of the patrol. 

CASE NUMBER: #405 – N0V0719
TITLE: Project Nexus
STATUS: In Progress

REPORTS:

March 27th - Current: Missing Persons Case (1 of 7) 

April 15th: Experimental Phaser Technology - Old Gotham

April 15th: Fear Toxin-Coated Weapons - Ace Chemicals

April 20th: Rogues Spotted - Old Gotham

April 20th: Hostile Incident – Crime Alley ←

LOADING. . .

LOADING. . . 

AUTHENTICATING. . .

OPENING FILE

---

CASE NOTES (Pg. 1 of 3)

Summary

On the night of April 20th, a confrontation involving an unidentified male occurred in Crime Alley. GCPD responded to reports of an erratic individual displaying heightened aggression and unnatural resistance to pain. The suspect engaged with multiple officers and bystanders, showing no reaction to blunt force or stun-based incapacitation techniques. Despite a coordinated response, the suspect’s body went missing before an autopsy could be conducted.

Incident Timeline

• 10:34 PM: Initial civilian reports of a disturbance at Burnside Avenue and Park Row.
• 10:41 PM: GCPD arrives on-site; suspect is unarmed but aggressive. Attempts at verbal de-escalation fail.
• 10:47 PM: Officers engage the suspect physically, noting an apparent inability to feel pain or injury.
• 10:54 PM: Suspect is subdued after significant effort, though signs of continued hostility persist.
• 11:01 PM: Transport was arranged for the suspect’s body following their sudden collapse.
• 11:30 PM: GCPD reports that the body is missing from the transport van. Investigation pending.

Background

Preliminary analysis suggests the suspect may have undergone experimental augmentation tied to Project Nexus. Nexus, a classified endeavor led by Dr. Elias Varos, focused on the development of neural-linked prosthetics and nanotechnology. The project’s termination six months before these events has led to speculation about the unauthorized continuation of the research.

Dr. Varos himself has been missing since March 27th, coinciding with an increase in related incidents involving advanced technology and altered individuals.

Evidence

1. GCPD Body Camera Footage - Recorded during the incident. Footage shows the suspect shrugging off tasers and baton strikes.
• GCPD_BodyCam_0420-2247_SUSPECT.AGGRESSION.AVI
2. Recovered Clothing - Torn shirt recovered from the scene contains trace amounts of advanced composite fibers resembling those used in experimental prosthetic designs under Project Nexus. 
• IMG_MARCH_20_NEXUS_908-12.png
3. Unexplained Disappearance - GPS data confirms the transport van traveled directly to GCPD headquarters, but upon arrival, the suspect's body was missing. Tampering with the vehicle’s locking mechanism has been identified.
• (Expand)

Attached Files

• Financial Transactions (November - April): Dr. Varos’s accounts show renewed activity, with large sums directed to offshore entities.
• IMG_MARCH_20_EV_NEXUS_363-12.png

CLOSE REPORT ←

Tim sighed, feeling the excitement of the hangout die as he clicked off of the report, rubbing at his eyes. Tim didn’t know how long he had been sitting down, but his butt was increasingly more sore.

“What’re you looking at?” Tim jumped, whipping his head to spot Jason leaning against the doorway frame. He sighed, running his hands through his hair as he left enough room to allow Jason to view the Case File. 

“Fuck me, if I thought my Case File was bad…” Jason clicked his tongue, pulling up an ottoman to sit across from the boy as they sat near the computer screens. “Spend anymore time on this shit, I might tell Alfred that you inherited Bruce’s workaholic gene,” Jason smirked.

“I wish we could’ve gotten those Fear Toxin weapons. I mean, ‘nanotechnology’? This is advanced, even for us,” Tim leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “People are getting violent. A couple of days ago, I was investigating this woman who was attacked earlier that patrol – back all torn up, I mean, she has to get reconstructive surgery. People are getting scared,” 

“And worst of all, we don’t exactly know who to point fingers at.” Jason huffed again, a hollow laugh. He leaned back on the ottoman, folding his arms over his chest as he glanced at the screen. "We’re grasping at straws here. This case is legit out of a sci-fi horror flick. I mean, a guy who doesn’t feel pain? What, is a robot sent from the future going to kill us next? This has ‘bad news’ written all over it."

Tim nodded, his eyes still glued to the screen. "Bruce thinks it all ties back to Project Nexus. The missing persons, the weapons tech, even the guy in Crime Alley. It’s too much to be coincidence." He scrolled up, clicking out of the incident report to review the attached files again, and clicking on the video file under “Missing Persons Report”.

VIDEO FILE NAME:
CAM_HARBOR_0327-2234_UNID.FIGURE.AVI

Metadata:

• Recorded: March 27, [Year], 10:34 PM
• Location: Gotham Harbor, Dock 9
• Camera ID: Harbor_Cam_09_XTR
• Resolution: 720p (grainy due to low-light conditions)
• Duration: 4:12
• Notes: Figure matching Dr. Elias Varos’s physical profile observed boarding an unregistered cargo vessel. Vessel identified as "Styx Mariner," absent from official maritime records.

OPEN FILE ←

"This image… It’s like he knew someone was watching him. Look at how he’s turned, almost like he’s staring into the camera."

Jason leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "Creepy. You think it’s Varos?"

"Could be," Tim murmured. "But if it is him, then who’s he working for? The financial transactions suggest offshore accounts, but none of them tie back to a specific buyer or investor. Someone’s bankrolling him, and they’re good at staying hidden."

Jason let out a sharp exhale, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Typical. Rich psychos with too much time and too many resources. Probably hiding out in some island fortress while Gotham goes to hell." He paused, his expression darkening. “But why now? What’s the catch?”

Tim stared at the screen, his brow furrowed. "That's the thing. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the exhaustion settling in. "Bruce thinks this has been going on longer than we realize—like, Nexus was just the beginning. These guys have been working in the shadows for years, maybe even decades. Varos just... slipped up."

Jason ran a hand through his hair. "Slipped up? This whole thing stinks of a plan that’s been set in motion for a long time. And now that he’s on the run, it’s like the pieces are starting to come together, but we're missing some crucial ones."

Tim sat back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping on the desk. "I’ve been trying to make sense of it all—missing persons, weapons, augmented individuals... and now this ship. Everything's too clean. It doesn’t add up."

Jason shook his head. "Nothing about this is clean. It’s all dirty, and it's getting messier by the second. Whoever's behind this isn’t playing by the rules. If Varos was just the test run, then what’s next? I mean, a bunch of augmented freaks running around, people vanishing, and a bunch of high-tech weapons with no known origin? That doesn’t scream ‘done deal’ to me. It screams ‘beginning of the end.’”

Tim glanced over at Jason, his voice dropping lower. "That's what I’m worried about. What if this is just the start? What if they’ve already got something bigger planned? I’ve been pulling at strings, but if this Nexus thing’s been kept under wraps, we’re going to need more than just a couple of old files and shaky surveillance footage to stop it."

Jason leaned forward, his eyes narrowing on the file. "So what do we do next? Keep chasing ghosts? Or find the people pulling Varos's strings?"

Tim opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the soft hum of his phone vibrating on the desk. He glanced down at the screen, blinking in surprise at the unexpected notification. It was a message from Bruce.

Message: "Meet me at the Batcave."

Tim looked up at Jason, his expression hardening. "Guess we're not the only ones pulling at strings." He stood up quickly, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. "Let’s go."

Jason followed suit, his smirk returning. "Maybe Bruce finally wants to tell us what the hell’s going on.”

Chapter Text

Damian soared through the air, his movements fluid as he trailed Tim across the rooftops, the wind biting at his face. The city below was a blur of shadow and flickering streetlights, but his focus never wavered from Tim’s figure ahead. They were responding to a call— mercenaries attacking civilians on the tops of a nearby rooftop. They were a couple of buildings away, and Damian could spot the struggle.  

Tim glanced back, his mask barely concealing a small, reassuring smile. Damian barely nodded in return, his concentration sharpening as the sounds of chaos grew closer.  

As Damian leaped over the large gap in between rooftops, it hit.

A sudden, violent pull ripped through Damian’s body like an anchor chained to his spine, dragging him down. His vision blackened as a searing pain tore through him, sharp and unrelenting, freezing him mid-leap.  

Gravity betrayed him.  

Tim’s shout was a distant echo as Damian plummeted, his body smashing against the metal rungs of a fire escape. The sharp crack of bone echoed in his ears as his leg snapped, his descent barely slowing before he crashed onto a dumpster. The impact drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping, stunned, and broken.  

The world swam in agony.  

Damian’s ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. He tried to move, but pain surged through him like electricity, pinning him in place. His leg was useless, a throbbing mass of broken bone, and his ribs screamed with every shallow breath. A warm trickle of blood slid down the back of his head, sticky against his skin.  

He whimpered involuntarily, his voice weak, drowned by the pounding in his head. Panic clawed at his chest as he shifted his gaze, trying to assess the alley. Damian didn’t know how much time had passed, but the sound of Tim fighting the mercenaries was a low hum of noise. Damian needed to protect him, but every movement made bile rise from his throat.

And then, from the shadows, a figure emerged.  

They were slight in frame, their face hidden beneath a hood that swallowed the light. Damian’s muscles screamed as he fought to move, to reach his dagger, to do something . But his body refused him, locked in agony.  

His body was like a marionette on strings, didn’t move, no matter how much he wanted. He could only watch as the shadow grew closer and closer.

Damian could barely move his fingertips against the dumpster lid, and his breath was short and fast. Every breath felt like he was breathing in hot, wet sand, and yet, that was all he could do. 

The figure stepped closer, silent but deliberate, their steps heavy in Damian’s ears. They moved slowly, agonizingly slowly, as if slowly assessing Damian’s crumpled form. Their hands twitched around something, but from Damian’s angle, he couldn’t see what. When they stood before him, Damian tried again to push himself away, gritting his teeth through the pain. His body trembled with the effort, but he could barely shift an inch.  

His body was not listening to him.

The figure tilted their head, a gesture both curious and unnervingly calm. Their hand reached toward him, and Damian recoiled as much as his broken body allowed. The cold terror in his chest twisted into something sharper—rage, defiance, survival.  

Then, a click.  

The noise that followed shattered through his skull, a shriek of sound so piercing it drowned everything else. Damian’s vision burned white-hot, and he realized distantly that the hoarse, guttural scream was his own.  

And then—nothing.  

The alley dissolved into darkness, pulling him under like a tide.

Damian jolted upright, the pain searing through his body like a jagged arrowhead, twisting deep into his core. A shaky hand flew to his mouth as waves of nausea rose, threatening to overwhelm him. His surroundings came into focus—or what little focus the thick, suffocating fog allowed. The alley was shrouded in an eerie haze, the streetlights extinguished, and the world around him warped, blurred, like the edges of a fading nightmare.

He staggered to his feet, pushing himself off the dented metal of the dumpster. The ground swayed beneath him, his head spinning as the fog swallowed everything, even his outstretched hand. His breath hitched when he finally saw it—his hand slick with crimson, the blood warm and sticky against his trembling fingers. He recoiled, stumbling backward, his limp dragging him through the mire of pain and confusion.

But the whispers drowned out the ache—insidious, guttural, pressing into his mind and shoulders like a predator stalking its prey. The weight of his monstrous instincts bore down on him.

He glanced down at his uniform, and a cold shiver tore through him. This wasn’t the sleek black of the Wraith—it was the crimson-streaked garb of the League. Blood, thick and fresh, soaked the fabric. His breath came in sharp gasps, and his knees threatened to buckle. A whimper escaped his throat, raw and broken.

What had he done? 

Who had he hurt?

Damian shook his head, shaking the fears from his body like speckles of snow. He had to find Tim. Damian was sure that the teenager was being occupied by some lowlife criminals. Although he could no longer hear the soft noises of a confrontation.

Then, he saw it. Clear as day. 

A lifeless silhouette, stark against the haze, crumpled and drenched in red. Tim’s body lay motionless, his blood pooling into the cracks of the pavement. Beside him gleamed Damian’s golden dagger, abandoned, damning.

Damian’s legs buckled as he stumbled forward, the air stolen from his lungs by a sob that clawed its way free. He dropped to his knees, shaking hands clutching Tim’s limp form. His trembling fingers traced over Tim’s pale face, smearing blood as they went.

Damian’s eyes scanned the teenager’s body, searching for the tale-tell signs of breathing. But Tim’s chest was perfectly still. His chest was a mess of wounds and blood.

Instantly, Damian understood, reaching for his dagger with trembling fingers. The League uniform. His dagger. The blood.

Tim was dead. Because of Damian. 

“Get up!” Damian screamed, the sound ripping through his throat as if it might tear him apart. “GET UP! PLEASE!” His metallic mask constricted, the sobs triggering the mechanism until it tightened unbearably, muffling his cries into suffocated gasps .

But Damian continued to scream and sob, feeling the mask grow tighter and tighter until Damian could no longer open his mouth to let out keens of pain.

Your fault.

Your fault.

Your fault.

Damian’s gaze lifted, drawn by an unrelenting weight. His heart plummeted.

Jason lay curled beneath Dick, their bodies entwined as if Dick had tried to shield his brother in his final moments. Blood soaked the concrete around them, a macabre frame for the horror Damian had wrought.

“No,” Damian whispered, his voice breaking, cracking under the enormity of it all. He crawled backward on shaking limbs, his hands smearing their blood across his face as he clawed at his hair. His breaths turned to dry heaves, the bile rising in his throat as he sank into the ground, sobbing.

They had nurtured him and cared for him and loved him.

And for that indiscretion, he had murdered them. 

A shadow fell over him, hard and unyielding. Damian looked up to see his father, his face a mask of anguish and fury. Bruce dropped to his knees, cradling Jason and Dick in his arms. His sobs were raw, jagged shards of grief that tore through the air.

 “My-my-my sons. Wh-What have you done?” The accusation struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Damian scrambled back to Tim’s body, clutching the boy’s bloodied form as though it could absolve him. He pressed his face into Tim’s torn uniform, desperate for the comfort that he could no longer provide.

Damian pressed his wet face into the teenager's uniform, as he clutched the kevlar with tight fingers. He brushed a hand against the teenager’s face, cradling it with such care as if Tim were made of glass.

Tim, who fought tooth and nail for him.

Who bandaged his wounds with Batman bandaids and who ruffled Damian’s curly hair.

Who showed Damian his favorite video games and argued over combat books.

And Damian had just murdered him. Like a monster.

Bruce’s hand shot out, gripping Damian’s hair and slamming his head into the ground. Pain exploded behind Damian’s eyes as he was yanked upward, forced to meet his father’s gaze. But what stared back at him wasn’t the face of a father—it was a man hollowed by grief, his love for Damian crushed into ash.

Damian was simply there due to responsibility. To protect others. The small ounce of love that his father may have had, was dried. Crumbling in his hand like powder.

Damian was nobody’s son, not anymore.

“STAY AWAY!” The man roared, throwing Damian away from his sons. His body slammed into the concrete, skidding against the gravel and rolling to a stop against a brick wall. Damian rose from the ground, feeling his body crawl with the horrors of what he had done. 

His head was ringing, the only sound punctuating the chaos were the broken sobs of a man who had just lost his sons.

All three of them.

Tim spun on his heel, delivering a sharp kick to the chest of a mercenary, sending the man crashing into a lamppost. The crack of impact echoed through the park as Tim ducked, narrowly avoiding the swing of a crowbar. He countered with a precise jab to his attacker’s wrist, disarming him before a swift punch to the temple rendered the mercenary unconscious.

His chest heaved, each breath sharp and labored. In the corner of his mind, a persistent worry gnawed at him. Damian. He’d seen him fall. Tim’s heart clenched as he pictured the way Damian’s body had twisted in the air, the sound of his panicked cry echoing in his ears.

Focus, he told himself, forcing his attention back to the fight. Three more mercenaries circled him, their weapons gleaming in the dim park lights. Tim gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance. He couldn’t help Damian if he was overwhelmed here.

One charged at him with a knife, but Tim sidestepped, grabbing the attacker’s wrist and twisting it back until the weapon clattered to the ground. He followed up with a kick to the ribs, sending the mercenary sprawling. Another lunged with a baton, and Tim ducked low, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him before incapacitating him with a well-placed strike.

The last mercenary hesitated, his confidence faltering. Tim seized the moment, closing the distance and delivering a brutal uppercut. The man crumpled, leaving the park eerily quiet save for Tim’s ragged breaths.

For a moment, Tim stood there, his fists clenched and his heart racing. Then the reality of Damian’s fall hit him like a blow to the chest. He turned toward the alley, panic rising in his throat.

Then he heard it, screaming, raw and broken.

"WRAITH!" he yelled, sprinting to the rooftop's edge and peering down. His blood ran cold at the sight. A figure stood over Damian, holding his body up, and working on something. They were barely visible and immediately stepped back, holding a finger to their mouth.

Tim’s stomach twisted as he took in the scene. Damian lay sprawled on the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, trembling violently. His screams had subsided into shallow gasps, but the sight of the figure looming over him sent Tim into overdrive.

“Hey!” Tim yelled, leaping from the rooftop and swinging toward the alley. “Get away from him!” 

The figure hesitated, their head tilting as if curious, before retreating into the shadows. Tim landed hard, his boots skidding on the grimy pavement. He lunged forward, ready to pursue, but the figure was already gone, disappearing into the darkness as they had never been there.

Tim cursed under his breath but quickly turned his attention to Damian. The boy was trembling violently, his breaths coming in short, erratic bursts. His hands clutched at the ground as if trying to anchor himself, his pupils blown wide and darting around the alley in unfocused panic.

“Damian,” Tim said, kneeling beside him. He carefully pulled the boy’s head into his lap, wincing at the faint whimper of pain that escaped Damian’s lips. “Hey, it’s me. You’re safe now.”

Damian didn’t respond, his body trembling as though he were freezing. Tim gently brushed a hand over his forehead, trying to calm him, but the boy flinched, shaking his head as if trying to clear away a nightmare.

“Wraith, talk to me,” Tim urged, his voice low and steady.

Damian’s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he whimpered softly, tears streaking his face. Tim felt a pang of helplessness. His grip tightened protectively around the younger boy.

“It’s okay,” Tim said quickly, grabbing the antidote syringe from his utility belt. His hands shook as he prepared it. “You’re going to be okay.”

He injected the antidote into Damian’s arm, watching as the boy’s breathing began to slow. The trembling lessened slightly, but Damian’s eyes remained distant, his body still curled in pain.

Tim activated his comms, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “Oracle, I’ve got Wraith. He took a nasty fall, but he’s alive. Some… figure was standing over him. He has symptoms of Fear Toxin, but I’ve injected the antidote. Get the others ready.”

“Fear Toxin?” Barbara’s voice came through, sharp with concern. “But Crane’s mercenaries didn’t have any dispersal units—none that we saw.”

“I know,” Tim replied grimly. “But it’s in his system. I thought…maybe the-the bullets we lost earlier, but there was no sound of a struggle.”

Damian shifted weakly in Tim’s lap, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak. Tim leaned closer, trying to catch the faint words.

“I’m here,” Tim murmured.

But all Damian managed was a strangled, broken whisper. His face twisted in anguish, and he shook his head violently, tears spilling again.

“Don’t push yourself,” Tim said gently, his voice softening. “You’re safe. I promise.”

The boy let out a shaky breath, his body going limp as exhaustion overtook him. Tim tightened his hold, his heart heavy as he stared at the shadowed alleyway where the figure had vanished. Whatever had happened here wasn’t over—and the unanswered questions gnawed at him as he waited for backup.

Damian awoke with a sharp inhale, the lingering sensation of choking darkness clutching at his chest. He blinked rapidly, his surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. The sterile hum of medical equipment filled his ears, mingling with the faint scent of antiseptic. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching as if he’d been crushed under a thousand fears.

His gaze darted around the dimly lit infirmary, and he froze when his eyes landed on Tim. The older boy was slumped on a chair beside the cot, his head tilted at an awkward angle, deep in an exhausted sleep. Damian stared at him for a long moment, the events of the alleyway clawing their way back into his mind in jagged fragments. The shadowed figure. The pain. The fear.

Without thinking, Damian lurched forward, his arms wrapping tightly around Tim’s shoulders. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through his battered body, but he didn’t care. Tim jolted awake, his instincts immediately on high alert. When he realized Damian was clinging to him, his tension melted into something softer.

“Damian…” Tim’s voice was groggy but gentle, his hand coming up to rest on Damian’s back. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Damian didn’t respond. His grip tightened around Tim, his face pressed into the warmth of Tim's shoulder as if the contact could shield him from the chaos still clawing at his mind. He sought the comfort, the familiarity of Tim’s presence, but it was quickly overshadowed by the terror that surged within him. His fingers brushed over the faint line on his neck, absently tracing it, his thoughts flickering to the dagger in his hand, the cold steel that had been so real, so powerful. His heart pounded with the memory—sharp and disorienting.

“Let me tell the others,” Tim said, his voice gentle but insistent. He made a move to rise, but Damian’s hand shot out, gripping Tim’s wrist with a force that betrayed his fragile state. His body trembled as he fought the impulse to push Tim away, to lock himself up. The last thing he wanted was to hurt him, to put him in danger. But the fear, the self-loathing, the constant feeling of being a threat to everyone around him... it clawed at him from the inside.

Tim paused, sitting back down with a concerned frown, his eyebrows furrowing as he scooted closer. "What’s wrong?"

“I…Can you stay for a while longer?” Damian's voice was quiet, strained. He couldn’t meet Tim's eyes, his gaze flickering to the side as if the words might betray him. Tim nodded, his presence a comfort even though Damian couldn’t fully understand why. He was suffocating under the weight of his actions, yet he craved Tim’s warmth, his closeness. It made him feel less broken. Less lost.

“There was a…” Damian blinked and his voice trailed off, his mind scrambling to piece the memory together. But it slipped away like sand through his fingers. The image of the shadowed figure was gone—disintegrating before he could grasp it fully.

“A…what? What, Dami?” Tim asked, leaning forward to place a hand on Damian’s back. He flinched, rubbing at his arms and feeling the bandages over himself. 

“I cannot say. I do not remember,” Damian craned his head to look at Tim. Every once in a while, Damian counted the times the teenager breathed in and out and the way that his eyes flickered towards him with worry. Damian could feel the weight of Tim’s concern. But the panic inside him only grew. The more Tim cared, the more Damian feared he might hurt him. He wanted to push Tim away—needed to—but there was this aching pull, an emptiness that only Tim’s presence could momentarily fill.

Damian suddenly ripped his hand away from Tim’s, curling into himself as he pressed his chin to his chest. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Tim stammered, hands hovering for where he could provide comfort. Damian shook his head violently from side to side, clenching his fists against his chest. The beeps of the monitor started to increase in frequency.

“I shouldn’t be around you. Around anyone,” Damian turned his head, eyes wide with panic. His words came out fast, panicked. The memory of his nightmare pressed on, the blood coating his hands, the weight of Tim’s dead body. And the accusation on his father’s face.

Tim sat in stunned silence, the words hanging in the air like an unbearable weight. Damian’s distress was palpable, a visceral thing that seemed to radiate off him in waves. He’d seen the young assassin push people away before, but never like this. There was something different now—something deeper, darker—something that made his heart ache with an intensity he hadn’t been prepared for.

“Damian…” Tim whispered, but his voice caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to fix this.

“Please. I shouldn’t…touch you. It’s for your safety.” Damian leaned forward, pressing his palms onto his eyes, no longer speaking. Tim leaned forward, examining the area in which the figure was standing over him and touching Damian. But there was nothing, not on the base of his neck, or in the mess of the boy’s curly hair. No device, or remnants of any sort.

Tim knew there needed to be an inspection of some kind, but not now.

“I’m…I’m let the others know you’re awake.” Tim finally said, still close to Damian, but allowing the boy his space. Tim pulled out his phone, ready to text Dick about the update.

Message: “Hey. Damian’s awake. Pretty spooked and unable to fully explain what happened. Still have not done a full workup.”

The door to the infirmary slid open, and the soft shuffle of boots announced the arrival of Dick, Jason, and Bruce. Their presence filled the room with a heavy tension, their eyes immediately locking onto Damian’s pale and battered form. Jason crossed his arms, his face unreadable, while Dick’s concerned gaze flickered between Damian and Tim. Bruce, as always, was stoic, his jaw set in a way that betrayed his underlying worry.

“Damian,” Bruce said, his voice low but commanding. He stepped closer, his piercing eyes scanning his son for any signs of immediate danger. “How are you feeling?”

Damian tensed further at the question, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Fine,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

Tim stood, glancing back at Damian before addressing the others. “It’s the Fear Toxin,” he explained. “I gave him the antidote, but whatever he was exposed to… it was different. Stronger. And there’s something else—there was someone there.”

“Someone?” Jason’s voice was sharp, his posture stiffening. “What do you mean, ‘someone’?”

Tim nodded. “A figure. They were standing over him when I found him. I couldn’t get a good look before they disappeared, but they weren’t with the mercenaries.”

Bruce’s expression darkened. “We’ll address that later. Right now, I need to ensure Damian is stable.” He turned to his son, his tone softening slightly. “We’re going to run a full evaluation, Damian. No arguments.”

Dick stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on Damian’s arm. “We just want to make sure you’re okay, Dami. You’ve been through a lot.”

Damian didn’t protest, though his posture remained rigid. His eyes flickered toward Jason, who had taken a seat against the wall, his gaze fixed on the floor. The tension in the room was suffocating.

As Bruce began setting up diagnostic equipment, Dick sat beside Damian, offering him a reassuring smile. “You’re not alone in this, kiddo,” he said. “We’re here for you.”

Damian hesitated, the walls he had so carefully built beginning to crack under the weight of their concern. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to lean into Dick’s touch, the warmth of his family’s presence grounding him. The comfort of Dick managed to ease the images of what he had done - what he thought he had done. 

Bruce paused, leaning closer as his eyes scanned what he was seeing. The image was clear as day; Damian's metallic spine gleamed faintly under the dim infirmary light, its sleek, segmented design resembling a polished exoskeleton. Each vertebra was intricately crafted, with delicate grooves and tiny. The metallic plating seamlessly integrated with his natural skin, though faint scars marked the borders where flesh met machine—a testament to the invasive procedure that had fused man and metal.

At the base of his neck, just above the juncture of his spine, was a small, circular chip, embedded directly into his flesh. It was no larger than a coin, its surface etched with intricate circuitry. Thin, hair-like wires extended outward from the chip, disappearing beneath his skin, connecting it to his nervous system and the rest of the spine's augmentations.

Bruce fell back in his chair and Jason leaned forward, his eyes flickering towards Damian’s as the rest of them took in the sight of Damian’s images. 

Damian instantly seemed to know what they were looking at; he pulled away from Dick, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. The silence was deafening and thick, the tension in the air was palpable. The hairs on Damian’s neck stood up and he felt his goosebumps rise. If Damian focused enough, he could feel the metallic attachments bend and twist with every movement.

“Jesus,” Jason muttered, covering his mouth as he stepped backward. It was only then that Damian realized he had said it out loud.

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable as he studied the diagnostic display. The intricate mechanisms of the metallic spine were unlike anything he’d seen before. His analytical mind raced to identify the tech, but even he couldn’t immediately discern its origin. It was advanced—far beyond anything Gotham’s usual rogues or criminal organizations would employ. 

Damian’s chest tightened. He felt their eyes on him, their collective shock a weight pressing him further into the cot. He wrapped his arms around himself, his nails digging into his forearms as if the pain could ground him, could make him feel something other than exposed and alien.

“Damian,” Bruce finally said, his voice low, measured. “When did this happen?”

Damian’s throat worked, but no sound came out. His mind worked back to the harsh, wrathful voice of his father, but he pushed it aside. This was not the same man. “It’s classified. My prior experience cannot be revealed. Not without the proper authorization.” His voice; was clipped and mechanical. As if the past couple of weeks had been erased — they were looking at the same robotic boy who had intruded into their lives.

But that answer was an answer in among itself. The League. Talia. Ra’s.

Bruce sighed, rubbing his face with his hands with trembling fingers. Dick leaned closer, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. For once, he didn’t push it away. “Can you tell us anything? Anything at all?”

Damian shook his head, the memory as real as ever. He could still feel the phantom pain of the metal. But the chip itself – Damian didn’t know. How long had that been in his body, waiting, like a parasite ready to implant itself?

How long had Damian’s body not been his own?

The others were silent before Bruce rose to his feet. “Tell me what you went through.” The room fell silent. Damian’s jaw clenched, and his hands gripped the edge of the cot. His breathing quickened slightly, but he didn’t look up. Damian recognized it as an order, though Jason shoved Bruce suddenly, face contorted into anger. 

“You can’t just use that shit whenever you fucking feel like it. If he can’t talk about it, then he can’t –”

Damian shook his head, interrupting the argument with a hiss of pain. “I cannot. It is classified,” he pressed on, avoiding the flares of pain from his speech. 

Damian could no longer recall the exact moment when it all began—when the slow unraveling of his autonomy turned into a suffocating chain. The contingencies had crept into his life like a shadow, insidious and unyielding until they became as natural as the air he breathed. He didn’t remember the first time he felt the sharp edge of obedience carve its mark into his soul, but the memory of what followed was seared into him. Orders were not to be questioned. Commands were absolute.

If Damian did not act on the contingencies himself, then it would punish him. The cost of defiance was agonizing, a torment that defied words. Hesitation was a betrayal to the unseen masters of his fate, punished with cruelty he could only describe as unending lightning tearing through his body. The pain would surge and writhe, relentless and unforgiving, like an electric storm within his veins that left him trembling and broken.

“Why…why would they do this to you?” Tim asked a tremble in his voice. 

“Control. For making a fucking better soldier, that’s what.” Jason spat out, his hands clenching into fists. Dick was silent, hand over his mouth like he was about to throw up.

“Run a scan for residual toxins or chemical compounds. If there’s anything unusual in his system, we need to find it.” Bruce ordered, going into overdrive. The softness in his voice was replaced by the need to move, to act. Tim nodded, giving Damian a look before he grabbed the diagnostic machines and walked over to the center console. 

“I’m going to fucking kill Talia,” Jason barked, his shoulders tight with the need to do something. But Bruce shook his head, his eyes sharp. But they contained the same amount of anger, the same amount of rage.

“If we act, this will be an all-out war. We still need to focus on the figure, and how it all relates to…Damian,” Bruce finished, voice gravelly.

As the hours stretched on, the room became a quiet backdrop to the steady rhythm of the diagnostic equipment. Tim moved with precise efficiency, running scan after scan, analyzing the foreign technologies embedded within his body.

Damian remained mostly still, his mind a constant whirl of confusion and dread, as each test felt like another violation, another reminder of his lack of control. The pressure to cooperate gnawed at him, the silent punishment of his hesitation still fresh in his muscles, yet he couldn't help but feel detached, as if he were no longer truly inhabiting his skin.

Bruce and Jason hovered nearby, their frustration palpable, while Dick stayed close to Damian, offering quiet words of reassurance, though it seemed nothing could ease the boy's internal chaos. With each passing test, it became clearer that whatever had been done to Damian—whatever dark purpose had shaped his body—was far more intricate and terrifying than anyone had anticipated. And yet, the answers remained elusive, hidden within the haze of his fractured memory and the painful, mechanical responses of his own body.

Without another word, once Tim gave a thumbs up, he strode toward the Batcomputer. The screen illuminated his face as he accessed Tim’s report, scanning the detailed analysis of the chip. His frown deepened as lines of text scrolled across the display. The chip contained a sophisticated neural interface—its primary function though remained a mystery. But there was more. Embedded in its design was a delivery system for a compound. Bruce pulled up a chemical analysis and froze.

"Fear toxin," he murmured. His mind raced as he considered the implications. It was a device that used fear toxin – for what purpose was still a mystery. The data was still incomplete; Tim’s initial findings suggested the toxin was administered in minuscule doses, enough to influence but not paralyze. Whoever designed it had ensured that the true extent of its purpose would remain hidden without deeper investigation.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his thoughts dark. "What are they trying to make you into, Damian?" he whispered to himself.

He glanced back at his son, who was shifting back into a sleeping position in the cot. Dick sat near him, whispering something to Damian. His face remained impassive, but his position was more open. Less scared.

Tim sighed, weariness setting in his shoulders as he continued to analyze. “If I had just gone after Damian, none of this would have happened. I’m such an idiot.” He let his head drop as if the weight of his actions was pulling down on him physically. Bruce shook his head, placing a soft hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“None of us could have known. Perhaps the figure only slightly changed the interface, rather than inserting it. Regardless, we need to find a way to…remove it somehow. Change it.” Bruce’s lips were set in a hard line, eyes scanning the diagnostics with precision.

Tim worked quickly, the diagnostic machine whirring to life as he began scanning Damian’s body for any lingering toxins or anomalies. The sterile beeps of the monitor only added to the tension that thickened the air. Bruce hovered nearby, his eyes not leaving the readout on the screen, while Jason paced, his frustration simmering just below the surface.

Damian sat frozen, the discomfort of their stares too much to bear. His thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind—disjointed, fragmented. The memory of the metal spine gnawed at him. The chip embedded within him. The invisible chains that bound him to something darker. Something that had never truly let go. He wanted to scream, but the words never came.

As Tim continued his scan, he didn’t look up, but his brow furrowed in concentration. “The neural interface…it’s like it’s grown to adapt to Damian’s body. Evolved. Removing it would be incredibly difficult and dangerous.” He zoomed into the image, leaning back to allow Bruce to view the full scope.

Upon closer inspection of the image, Bruce sucked in a breath. The spine itself was meticulously welded on, and the chip itself had fibers that seemed to be growing longer and longer; a cobweb of metal and technology. It was almost like a parasite – a foreign invasion that risked Damian’s life if they did more than just preliminary tests. The truth of the matter was – they couldn’t do anything, without risk of permanent damage to Damian’s brain and spine.

Dick moved up from Damian’s cot, ruffling his hair with a sad smile. Damian allowed himself a small quirk of his mouth, but still, there was a heaviness in the curve of his shoulders. “What’s the news?” Dick asked, shifting aside so Jason could take a closer look at the analysis.

Tim’s eyes flicked between the screen and Damian, his voice steady but edged with concern. “It’s… not good. This spine—it’s some kind of cybernetic augmentation. It looks like it's designed to make Damian stronger, faster, more resilient. It's not just a prosthetic; it's advanced tech, built for combat. Whoever did this had some serious resources.”

Jason’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. “So, they turned him into a fucking weapon.”

Tim nodded, his face reflecting the weight of the implications. “That's what it looks like. But there’s more we don’t know. There’s a chip at the base of his neck that seems to be controlling everything. The connection between the spine and whatever else is still unclear. It might be tied to the fear toxin, but I’m not sure how. But if we try to take it out…” He hesitated, his tone darkening. “It could damage his brain or spine. The systems are too intertwined.”

Dick’s eyes never left the screen, but his lips pressed into a thin line. “Damian...”

Damian kept his gaze on the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. The silence in the room was thick, filled with the weight of the unknown.

Tim exhaled sharply, his concern still etched into his features. “It’s going to take time. But whatever this is, we need to figure out what it’s really doing to you, and how to get it out safely.”

Damian sat in silence, the weight of their words pressing down on him like an invisible force. He could feel the eyes of the others, the quiet intensity of their concern, but it all seemed distant, as though he were no longer truly part of the world around him. 

What had once been a body forged from blood and bone was now a machine, a collection of wires, metal, and flesh. Every part of him, every instinct, felt warped as if the very essence of who he was had been rewritten.

Am I still me? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt fully human. It was as though every moment spent under the influence of this thing inside him had chipped away at his identity, piece by piece. What if he couldn’t put himself back together? What if he never would be whole again?

He caught Dick’s eye for a moment, and for just a second, the warmth in his older brother's expression made him ache. Will you still see me like this? Will they still look at him the same way once they see the full extent of what had been done to him? Could they?

The fear was more than just the terror that came with the toxin, more than the nightmares that seemed to crawl beneath his skin. It was the fear of being seen as something less —something broken. Something... inhuman.  What if this was all that he was meant for? The idea of him being normal, going to school, drawing, cooking - it was all a lie. In truth, Damian was just a violent weapon, his nightmares were closer to reality. 

Damian closed his eyes, letting the darkness swallow him for just a moment as if by shutting everything out, he could escape the truth of it. But the truth was always there, lurking, a shadow that would never leave. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend to be himself.

There was a deep, aching sadness in him now, a hollow feeling he couldn’t quite put into words. He was no longer sure if anyone would see him as human again, or if they would only see the weapon, the tool, the monster they would have to fix—or destroy.

Could they even love me like this?

Chapter Text

Lying awake in the med bay, staring up at the ceiling, Damian’s thoughts drifted like fragile leaves caught in an unseen current. 

His body had never been his own. It had been marked from birth, molded into an instrument for others’ purposes. Every decision, every moment of his existence, had been determined long before he could understand what it meant to choose. Freedom was a concept foreign to him, a dream he couldn’t even imagine anymore.

Damian couldn’t even dream a full dream.

Damian couldn’t even remember what it was like to dream. The slivers of sleep he had were always jagged, broken, incomplete, fragments of something he couldn’t hold. It was only time until his mind wasn’t his own either. Damian closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted, and pulled away from his thoughts. The weight in his chest never settled, the thrum of pain never fully ceased. His entire existence felt like a gaping wound that could only scab over, never to fully heal. 

He wished they would let him rot. The cold, sterile silence of a forgotten cell seemed preferable—a clarity found in purpose without questions, a life stripped of autonomy. He could be nothing more than a tool, a body to command, a soul to erase. That simplicity felt like a relief compared to the hollow ache of pretending to live a life he’d never owned.

He could die, and still, there would be no peace. Would they even let him die? Or would he awake with mechanical arms and legs that clinked like the gears of the machine, his heart pumping artificial blood, his eyes cameras rather than irises?

Would Damian even notice a difference?

His gaze drifted to the sleeping silhouettes of his brothers. Jason sat slumped in a chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his head tilted at an awkward angle. Yet, somehow, there was a calmness to his expression, a rare peace that softened his sharp edges. Dick was sprawled half on the floor, his upper body draped over the cot, one arm hanging limply, his head resting on his folded forearm. And then there was Tim, curled up beside him on the narrow cot, his small frame almost disappearing into the blankets. Even in sleep, his brow was knit with worry, as though the anxieties of the waking world refused to release their grip.

Damian rose, ignoring the flare of pain that shot out from his broken leg, stumbling off of the cot with a limp. His head flicked over to spot if he had awoken the others, but Tim merely grumbled, rolling over to the now empty spot. 

He let out a sigh, grabbed his crutch, and limped over to a lone laptop, where the images lay on standby. Damian took a seat with a grunt, scrolling through the images as his eyes skimmed over what he was seeing. 

The chip spread through his body like the roots of a tree, its tendrils threading deep into his flesh. If he pressed hard enough at the base of his neck, he swore he could feel one of the metallic fibers pivot beneath his skin. The thought brought a wave of nausea that rolled through him like a tide. His stomach churned, and he gripped the edge of the desk, his other hand trembling as it braced against his crutch.

Damian stared at the faint glimmer of computer light reflecting off the walls, his thoughts sinking into the ever-present weight at his back. The metallic spine hummed faintly within him, a constant reminder that something alien had been fused with his body. He couldn’t feel it entirely—not the way one feels skin or bone—but he was always aware of its presence, like a phantom shadow that had latched onto his soul.

Perhaps it was easier this way. To think of himself as something other than human. Humans were fragile, vulnerable things. They were bound by their fears, their failures, their fleeting mortality. But he—he was something else now. Something shaped, molded, and perfected by cold hands and cruel minds. The sleek metal threaded through his spine was not a theft of his humanity but proof that it had never been there in the first place. How could it be, when he had always been forged in fire and blood, honed as a weapon before he could even understand the meaning of freedom?

Autonomy . He let the word roll through his mind like a hollow echo. It was a concept for others, not for him. He was never meant to own himself, not truly. If he had lost something, it was only an illusion of control he never possessed. The chip within him, with unseen reaches coiled deep into his being, had simply stripped away the façade.

What was there to mourn if the chains were always there, hidden beneath the surface? He was neither flesh nor steel but a thing in between—something meant to follow orders, to endure, to survive. And if that was all he was, perhaps the weight of what had been done to him wouldn’t crush him completely. Perhaps it could even set him free.

It was easier then, to know that no one cared about the boy underneath the hard exterior, the shine of his armor, underneath the metaphorical walls he had spent so long perfecting. But now, he felt an ache. The others loved and cared, they worshipped the boy within. How could he explain to them that the boy had been replaced long ago? That he was merely a collection of parts and machinery that only knew to mimic humanity?

Damian let out a soft keen, the weight of what he had become crashing down on him like a tidal wave. His hand clutched his stomach as if the pressure could hold the fragments of himself together. His breaths came in shallow, trembling gasps, and he sank to the floor, curling into a ball. He shook his head, the tears he refused to shed burning in his eyes.

His body trembled, not from the chill of the cave but from the storm raging inside him. The boy—the person —he once was seemed so distant now, obscured by the cold, mechanical truth of what he'd been turned into. Suddenly, he felt utterly spent, every ounce of energy drained from him.

Pushing his spiraling thoughts to the back of his mind, Damian forced himself to his feet, limping back to the cot tucked in the corner of the cave. The small space felt suffocating, but it was the only sanctuary he had. He collapsed onto the cot, burying his face into the coarse fabric of the pillow.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart aching with a yearning he couldn’t suppress. He longed for the quiet comfort of his brothers—the warmth of their presence, the steady rhythm of their breathing as they stood guard over one another. Without thinking, his mind conjured the memory of Tim, his quiet determination and unyielding support.

Damian nestled into the cot as though Tim were there beside him, and something inside him shattered—something fragile, something vital.

How could a machine feel such anguish? he wondered bitterly. The thought tore through him like a blade. Why not replace my mind with the cold precision of a CPU? My lungs with the sterile turning of a fan?

But the ache in his chest reminded him that he still felt . For now, at least. For how much longer, he didn’t know.

“I don’t care how fucking long it takes, we need to get that out of him.” Jason barked, shoulders tense as they gathered about the Dining Room, the pot of coffee untouched and the baked goods turning cold in the morning light. He crossed his arms, a flicker of worry passing through his green eyes. “I’m not abandoning him to the League.” Not again, his mind reminded him softly. 

Bruce shook his head, face torn between heartbreak and distress, his eyes weary as he folded his hands together. His black hair had streaks of grey, and his cheeks were sunken – as if his life was physically drained. “If we remove it, we could permanently injure him. Or, kill him.” His words cut deep, Jason flinching as he turned his head away. 

“ –he is permanently injured. Those fucking bastards replaced his spine. For efficiency. I say, we fucking kill those sick bastards. Let em rot, for all I care.” Jason spat, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands into a fist.

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered, the others turning their attention to him. His face, a picture of horror. “That’s…that’s why his posture is so straight. It hurts him. It…still hurts him,” Tim gulped. The horror quickly morphed into anger – he straightened his back, determination burning in his eyes.

“We need more information. As much as I want to remove it, and believe me, I do, rushing this procedure will only be worse for us.” Dick’s voice was heavy with concern, his eyes flickering towards the Batcave. 

“I’ve been looking into the tech. It’s advanced—more than anything the League’s used before. This isn’t just about controlling Damian physically. It’s psychological. It’s rewriting him. If we wait too long… our Damian might be…different.” Tim began, pulling up his keyboard and rotating it towards the others.

REPORT ID: #6 - R3GCV

Subject: Preliminary Report on Damian’s Neural Chip and Spinal Augmentation ←

Compiled By: Tim Drake

For: Internal Review 

LOADING….

LOADING….

AUTHENTICATING…

OPENING REPORT

Overview

This report is an early assessment of the modifications made to Damian Wayne, focusing on the neural chip embedded in his brain and its connection to metallic spinal augmentation. The precise purpose and design of these augmentations remain unclear, but their psychological and physiological effects are evident.

Neural Chip

Observed Effects:

• The chip seems to alter Damian's perception of reality, potentially influencing his thoughts, emotions, and decision-making processes.

Fear Toxin Connection (Hypothetical):

• Evidence points to the involvement of Scarecrow’s fear toxin. Damian’s symptoms—intense fear responses, moments of detachment, and visible distress—indicate that the chip might be releasing controlled doses of the toxin into his system. The fear toxin could be used as a psychological weapon to induce compliance by breaking down his mental defenses.

Metallic Spine

Observed Effects:

• Damian’s spine has been augmented with a biomechanical structure. While it enhances his physical durability, it might also serve a secondary function of interfacing directly with the neural chip.
• The connection between the chip and the spine suggests that the two systems work in tandem to reinforce control. For example, the spine could act as a conduit for signals or as a power source, ensuring the chip’s uninterrupted operation

Tim watched as the others scanned over his report, seeing how they morphed with every new piece of information.

“It’s changing him…right now?” Dick asked, his voice shaking. When Tim glanced over at him, his face was shadowed, and Tim suddenly remembered why Tim never wanted to piss Dick off.

Tim nodded, his voice tight. “It’s gradual, but yes. Every minute we don’t act, that chip is doing its work. The fear toxin is making it worse. I think… I think it’s more than just a control mechanism. It’s meant to break him, to shatter who he is so they can rebuild him into whatever they want. The inputs in the chip are growing, becoming more intertwined with his brain.”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the Batcomputer in the background. Jason’s fist slammed into the table, the sudden noise causing Tim to flinch.

“They already did this once,” Jason snarled, his voice shaking with rage. “To me. To him. Hell, to all of us in some way. We’re not sitting around and letting them do it again.”

Dick placed a calming hand on Jason’s shoulder, though his expression was stormy. “We’ll get him back, Jay. But Tim’s right. Rushing this will just put him in more danger. We need to be smart about this.”

“And in the meantime?” Jason growled, shrugging off Dick’s hand. “While we’re sitting here playing detectives, it’s tearing him apart piece by piece. What the hell are we waiting for?”

“Evidence,” Bruce finally said, his voice rough. His hands gripped the table's edge tightly, his knuckles almost as pale as Jason’s. “A plan. A way to counter whatever they’ve done to him. If we go in blind, we risk losing him entirely.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, his arms spread wide. “Oh, so now you want to think ahead? Where was that when they took him in the first place, Bruce? Where was that when you left him in their hands for years?”

“Jason,” Dick warned, but the younger man waved him off, glaring daggers at Bruce.

“I’m not wrong,” Jason snapped. “We all know it. They’re ahead of us, and we’re scrambling just to catch up. We can’t afford to wait. Not anymore.”

Tim’s voice broke the tension, quiet but firm. “I don’t know how much time we have, but if we act without knowing how to undo what they’ve done, we’ll lose him. Not to the League, not to the chip, but because we didn’t think it through.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but Tim cut him off, his voice sharper than usual. “We’re working as fast as we can, Jason.”

For a moment, the tension in the room felt like it might snap. But then Jason exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “But we don’t have much time. We figure out a plan, and we move.”

Bruce stood, his presence casting a long shadow over the table. “We’ll start contingency planning. Tim, keep analyzing the chip and the spine. Dick, and Jason, I need you both looking into any League activity tied to Nanda Parbat. If they’re keeping him anywhere, it’s there.”

Tim sighed, getting up with a grunt after seemingly hours of work, before snatching a shortbread, and heading down to the Medbay. When the doors slid open, he spotted Damian staring at his journal, a pencil balanced on his finger, and his bandaged leg outstretched before him. Tim put on a smile, walking forward and taking a seat next to the boy.

They had agreed to all try and have at least one person be by Damian at all times. Tim balanced the laptop on his thigh, trying his best to smile softly. But Damian didn’t even look up, as if he didn’t notice that Tim was there.

“What’re you thinking of sketching?” Tim asked softly, pressing his hand on the cot so that Damian knew he was there.

“I…I do not know.” He looked up, and Tim suddenly realized how much the last couple of days had been on the boy. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were raw and red. His body was littered with injuries, and he looked so fragile that it was almost as if a gust of wind might shatter him into a thousand pieces. “What if…what if I can no longer draw?” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

His voice was so child-like, it made Tim want to sob.

“No. I…I won’t allow it,” Tim replied, voice firm. He knew not to make promises that he couldn’t keep – he didn’t know if Damian would even remember how to do anything other than kill . But it meant easing the mind of his little brother, Tim would do it a million times over. “Promise.”

Damian hesitated, then nodded, his trembling hand began sketching a figure, eyebrows furrowed in focus. He began to draw long, shaky strokes, and Tim let out a small sigh, beginning to type the report. Who exactly implanted the chip, was still a mystery. Did the League outsource someone capable of such abilities? Or did they already have someone in their grasp? Tim had a feeling that it was all connected somehow, almost by an invisible string – but he was too tired to truly analyze how it all fit together.

Suddenly, the pencil snapped in Damian’s hand, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the medbay. Tim glanced up, seeing the splinters and lead crumble in Damian’s hand like dust. Damian quickly threw the ruined writing utensil to the ground, closing the journal with a thud as he struggled to take deep breaths.

“What…what happened?” Tim asked haltingly, unsure of what to say. 

“I do not…entirely know. I attempted to readjust my grip, and it broke. ” Damian whispered, suddenly uncomfortable. What if he hurt Tim? Accidental or not, Damian couldn’t take the idea.

“It’s okay, I’ll get you another one,” Tim reassured him, rising to grab a mechanical pencil resting on one of the nearby counters. 

“There is no need. I do not want to sketch.”

Tim froze, his hand lingering over the pencil on the counter. He turned back, watching Damian press his trembling hands into the journal’s cover as though trying to anchor himself. Tim’s chest tightened at the sight, and he forced himself to sit back down beside his little brother, careful to keep his movements slow and deliberate.

“Damian,” Tim began softly, trying to meet the boy’s gaze. “It’s not about the sketch. It’s about keeping your mind busy, giving yourself something else to focus on. You don’t have to make it perfect. You just need to start.”

“I do not want to sketch,” Damian repeated, his voice firmer now, though it wavered at the edges. He still refused to look at Tim. “I…I fear what else might break.”

Tim’s lips parted, but he hesitated, considering his words. Then he spoke with quiet determination. “Nothing’s going to break, Damian. Not you. Not us. And we’re not going to let anything or anyone take you away again.”

Damian’s shoulders tightened as though bracing for an argument, but Tim just reached out and rested a hand lightly on his arm. The tension under his fingertips made him want to pull Damian into a hug, but he knew better. Damian hated feeling fragile, hated being coddled.

Instead, Tim kept his voice steady. “It’s okay to feel scared. To feel angry. You’ve been through more than anyone should ever have to, but you’re not alone anymore. You have all of us. You have me. And no matter what they’ve done, you’re still Damian. That’s not something they can take away from you.”

For a moment, Damian was silent, his eyes flicking down to Tim’s hand on his arm before shifting back to his journal. “How do you know?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Because you’re fighting,” Tim replied, leaning forward slightly. “Every second you keep going, you’re fighting them. And that’s something they can’t program out of you. That’s you, Damian.”

The boy’s lips tightened, and he blinked rapidly as if to force back tears. After a long pause, he finally whispered, “I do not feel like myself. It’s as if…pieces are missing. Or broken.”

Tim felt a lump form in his throat, but he pushed through it. “Then we’ll find those pieces together. And if some are broken, we’ll fix them. You’re not doing this alone.”

Damian finally glanced at him, his green eyes shimmering with uncertainty but also with the faintest flicker of hope. He didn’t speak, but he gave the barest of nods.

Tim smiled faintly, leaning back and typing more on his laptop. He wouldn’t push Damian further for now. Progress would come in small steps. But as he worked, he kept a watchful eye on his little brother, ready to help him pick up any pieces that might fall.

As night fell, and the Manor seemed to hunker to a slow rhythm, a dance on the precipice of it’s ending, a shadow found its way into the cave. Damian sat against the pillow, Jason sleeping peacefully on another chair, a book abandoned on his lap. The man had insisted on reading Damian his favorite story but had fallen asleep halfway through. Damian didn’t have the heart to wake him.

Then, he heard it. A whistle, low, quiet as the leaves shifting in the wind.

Mother.

Damian shook his head, knowing his command was to stay put. To remain in the safety of the manor. But something pricked at the edge of his mind—a creeping unease that pooled in the pit of his stomach, his palms clammy as sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

He turned to glance at Jason, intending to tell him about the sound when the man awoke suddenly. Jason’s face twisted into something dark and unfamiliar, his emerald eyes narrowing as they landed on Damian’s sitting figure.

Damian flinched at the look—it wasn’t annoyance or irritation. It was hatred .

“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Jason snarled, his voice sharp and cutting as glass. The book tumbled from his lap, forgotten, as he rose to his full height. His movements were abrupt, and aggressive, like he couldn’t stand to share the same air.

“I—” Damian started, but Jason’s glare silenced him instantly.

“Don’t. Just don’t. I don’t want to hear your excuses.” Jason took a step back, the revulsion on his face deepening as if Damian were something grotesque. “You know, you shouldn’t even be here. You don’t belong. You’re not family. You’re not even human . You’re just some twisted little project of Mother Dearest. A failed experiment.”

The words hit like blows, each syllable tearing into Damian’s chest. He felt his throat tighten, his hands trembling as he tried to keep his composure. But the tears betrayed him, pooling in his eyes.

“I… I’m sorry,” Damian whispered, his voice barely audible. He rose to stand, desperate to explain, to make Jason understand. His hand reached out, but Jason recoiled like Damian’s touch was poison.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Jason growled, his voice dripping with venom. “I can’t even look at you without feeling sick. Do you know how pathetic you are? Always trying to prove yourself. Always hoping someone will finally give a damn. But guess what? They won’t. Because you’re nothing. A parasite clinging to a family that doesn’t want you.”

Damian staggered back as if the words themselves had struck him. His chest heaved, the ache inside him growing unbearable, spreading like cracks in glass. He tried to speak, but no words came, his lips trembling as his mind screamed for an answer he didn’t have.

Jason sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “You should do us all a favor and leave. No one will miss you. Hell, they’d probably celebrate.”

And then, Jason turned on his heel and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Damian alone in the suffocating silence.

Damian stood frozen in the silence that followed, Jason’s footsteps echoing faintly down the hall. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest heaving as he clutched the arm of the chair to steady himself. The voice in his head was louder now, insistent, like the pull of a tide dragging him into the deep.

Leave.

The word reverberated through his mind, accompanied by flashes of Jason’s face twisted in anger and disgust. His heart screamed at him to stay, to believe in the family that had fought so hard to bring him back.

But the truth was, Damian was tired. Perhaps, it would be easier to accept the cold reality that he was nothing more than the ghost of a boy haunting the mechanical body he was given. That somewhere along the line, that child, that Damian Wayne , had died long ago.

Long before they had forced the metal into his back – when they stripped him of everything he had never gotten to know.

Damian’s hands trembled as he reached for his cane, the pain in his injured leg a sharp reminder of his injury. He bit back a hiss of discomfort, forcing himself to stand. 

He turned away, the whistle growing louder as he moved toward the hidden exit of the cave. His steps were slow, and hesitant, each one accompanied by the dull throb of his leg. The Manor’s quiet hum faded as he ventured deeper into the shadows, his heart pounding with every step. 

The weight on the back of his neck eased, and suddenly Damian felt like breathing wasn’t stilted and heavy.

By the time he reached the clearing outside, the night air was thick with an oppressive stillness, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves.

The figure waiting for him was cloaked in darkness, her silhouette sharp and commanding against the moonlight. Talia al Ghul stepped forward, her presence suffocating as she regarded her son with a mixture of disdain and expectation.

“You kept me waiting,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. “Even now, you disappoint me.”

Damian flinched at her words, his resolve wavering. “I could not leave sooner,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “My leg—”

The slap came before he could finish, sharp and stinging. His head snapped to the side, and he staggered, barely managing to catch himself on his good leg. His cheek burned where her hand had struck, but the pain was nothing compared to the weight of her scorn.

“Do not speak without command,” Talia hissed, her eyes narrowing. Talia inhaled, her hands clasped behind her back as she circled her son. “You have grown weak. They have dulled you, my dear. But, we will…improve you.” Damian shivered, feeling something swirl in his stomach.

His mind raced to consider what that may have meant. 

Damian glanced back at the manor, feeling something ache in his chest. Something in him told him to stay. A small voice, young and fragile like crumpled paper – a whisper like the shifting of reeds.

Then, a hand gripped his chin, ripping it towards the piers, his mother’s nails digging into the soft fat of his cheeks. “They, do not care for you. They do not want you to be effective. They make you weak. ” 

Damian winced as Talia’s nails dug deeper, sharp crescents biting into his skin. Her eyes burned into his, icy and unforgiving as if she could see straight through him, peeling back the layers of hurt and desperation he tried to hide.

“They coddle you, Damian,” she continued, her voice venomous and precise. “They pretend to love you, but what they truly see is a burden. A broken thing to pity. And you? You cling to them like a child grasping for a mother who abandoned him long ago.”

Her words twisted in his chest, sharper than any blade. Damian wanted to pull away, but Talia’s grip was iron. She tilted his face further, forcing him to meet her cold, unrelenting gaze.

“You will let go of those illusions,” she ordered, her voice carrying the weight of finality. “You are my son. My heir. And I will remind you of what that means.”

Damian’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his ears. “Mother, I—”

The slap came again, harder this time, snapping his head to the side. His vision blurred for a moment, stars dancing at the edges. He staggered, the weakness in his leg nearly sending him to the ground, but he refused to fall. Not in front of her.

“Excuses,” Talia spat. “You think weakness will earn you their love? You think they will embrace you if you crawl on your belly, begging for scraps of affection? No, Damian. They will discard you, just as they discarded me.” Her voice softened, but the malice remained. “But I will not let you squander your potential. I will strip away the softness they have inflicted upon you and make you strong again.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. The ache in his chest grew unbearable, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a vice. He thought of Jason’s sneer, the venom in his voice, and the raw ache of being unwanted. A part of him whispered that she was right. That he was nothing but a mistake. A failure.

But another part of him—the faint, fragile voice that had urged him to stay—clung desperately to the belief that there was something more. That he was more.

“You will come with me. I will rebuild you into something worthy of the name al Ghul. Or I will cast you aside, just as they would,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Damian swallowed hard, his throat tight. The ache in his chest expanded, threatening to consume him, but he nodded, his movements stiff and mechanical. Talia’s grip finally loosened, and she stepped back, satisfied with his compliance.

“Good,” she said, her voice as cold and unyielding as ever. “We leave now.”

As she turned and began walking toward the waiting shadows, Damian hesitated, his gaze lingering on the distant manor. The soft glow of its lights seemed impossibly far away, like a dream slipping through his fingers. He wanted to call out, to scream for someone—anyone—to stop him. To tell him he was wrong. That he was more than the monster they saw.

But the silence remained unbroken, and Damian turned away, abandoning the cane in the clearing, and following his mother into the darkness. Each step felt heavier than the last, the pain flaring with every footstep. The weight of his choice pressed down on him like lead. And though he kept his head high, his chest burned with the cold, inescapable truth: he was truly, utterly alone.

Chapter Text

The world Damian awoke to was a tomb of concrete and quiet despair. The air in his cell was thick and sour, heavy with the coppery tang of dried blood smeared across the cracked floor. Sunlight spilled through narrow slits in the walls, fractured into pale, trembling rays that painted the gray room with fleeting warmth. For a moment, he wondered if this was a dream, a fevered haze where nothing hurt and everything hurt.

But the dull nausea crawling up his throat proved otherwise. He threw himself to the edge of the cot, his stomach twisting violently until breakfast splattered onto the cold cement. His breaths came shallow and ragged, trembling fingers clutching his stomach. Amid the sharp taste of bile, his gaze fell to his leg—and froze.

Metal. Copper veins latticed through his flesh like cruel sutures, as though the wounds of his body had been stitched not by a healer’s hand, but by some cold, unfeeling machine. Damian's fingers traced the lines with a horrified reverence, the flesh warm but alien beneath his touch.

In the cavern of his mind, a voice whispered—not a plea for help or comfort, but an aching, childlike wish to show him . To show Dick. Not for solace, not even for judgment, but for…

His chest hitched, and he wrenched himself upright. He turned to the mess he'd made, grabbing a thin rag and scrubbing furiously, as though erasing the stain might absolve him of the fragile boy who had spilled it. Mother wouldn’t have tolerated such weakness.

The blood smeared into streaks, and the corners of his eyes stung as he scrubbed harder, the motion frantic and desperate. He paused only when he noticed his arms—bare, unbound by the bandaids Tim had so carefully applied.

They were gone.

His wounds, his small trophies of the love and care his brot– team had lavished on him, stripped away as though they had never existed. In their place, pink scars glistened faintly under the sunlight’s fractured rays, pristine and clinical. Every memory of their soft, imperfect touch had been cored out, leaving him hollow and aching. 

He felt it then: something fragile within him breaking, splintering into sharp fragments that scraped against the walls of his heart.

A strangled noise escaped his throat, and he wiped at his face with shaking hands. They didn’t want him. Not really. Not after knowing what he had become – had realized who he had always been . After all, wasn’t he just as much a weapon as the metal threading through his veins? A boy who cut deeper into others than he bled for himself?

Yet, their memory lingered, aching like a phantom limb. He could see them still—Tim’s careful hands wrapping his cuts, Dick’s arms pulling him close, Jason’s thundering laughter that sounded like it was ripped from him – the faint warmth of sunlight pooling in his chest whenever they were near. 

But like sunlight cupped in trembling palms, they were slipping away. No matter how tightly he held on, they faded, leaving nothing but a dream of what once was. 

Damian’s eyes slid over to the small charcoal left over for when he learned how to cauterize his wounds. With trembling fingers, he picked up the charcoal and stood in front of the wall. And with a shaky inhale, he began to draw.

Jason woke with a start, the kind of jolt that came from a dream where everything felt slightly wrong, even if you couldn’t remember why. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as he sat in the dim light of the Batcave. For a moment, he just stared at the cavern’s jagged ceiling, trying to shake the creeping unease clawing at his chest.

He blinked, rubbed a hand over his face, and looked around. The book he’d been reading lay splayed open on the cold floor where it had fallen, a crumpled page marking where he’d dozed off. Next to him, the chair where Damian had been sitting was empty.

Empty .

A chill spread through his veins. “Damian?” Jason called, his voice rough, cracking slightly. He waited, ears straining for a reply, but the only response was the low hum of the Batcave’s ever-present machinery.

Jason sat up straighter, his pulse quickening. “Kid, come on. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”

No shuffle of boots. No trembling inhale. Not even the sound of training.

His heart began to pound. He pushed himself to his feet, the ache of lingering sleep forgotten as dread took hold. Jason’s eyes darted around the cave, scanning for any sign of Damian’s presence. The cane the kid had leaned on after his last fight wasn’t there. His sword, which never left his side, was gone too.

Jason’s gut twisted as his mind pieced it together. Something wasn’t right. Something was very, very wrong .

“Damian?” he called again, louder this time. His voice echoed off the stone walls, mocking him with its emptiness.

Jason’s steps quickened, his boots clicking against the cave’s floor as he checked every corner. The medbay, the training area, the armory—nothing. His movements grew more frantic, his breath coming faster. And then he saw it.

A faint scuff in the dust near one of the hidden exits.

Jason crouched down, his fingers brushing over the subtle mark left by a small boot. The trail was faint but deliberate, leading out of the cave. His stomach dropped.

“No,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. A tremor ran through his body as the weight of realization slammed into him.

He shot to his feet, his chest heaving, and bolted for the manor. A cry – no, a wail tore itself out of his throat, ripping itself as he held a hand to his mouth. Jason was right there.

Jason was right there, and his little brother was gone.

His little brother who used– who would quirk his mouth at birds when they strolled the manor’s grounds. Damian, whose eyes were always glancing at art materials, but never asked to get any. Damian, whose eyes lit with disgust at Jason’s tea, yet who drank it anyway.

When he entered the manor, his grief melted into rage, into wrath. Distantly, he heard himself shouting, screaming for the others to search the manor. Dick’s expression when he threw open Damian’s bedroom door would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

Tim hadn’t slept in days.

The shadows under his eyes grew darker with each passing hour, but he didn’t care. The rest of the Batfamily had tried to intervene—Dick with his gentle reminders to take a break, something flickering in his eyes; Jason with his gruff attempts to shove a sandwich into his hands, eyes red and knuckles split. Even Bruce had made a rare show of concern, suggesting Tim step away for a moment to regain focus.

But Tim wouldn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Hours after Damian left, hours after Tim had stared at the surveillance feeds of his little brother leaving their home, he had sought comfort in Damian’s room. Only to realize that it was never his room to begin with.

No, it was a resting place. As if a ghost had wandered the halls, leaving only memories in his place. 

Tim didn’t even get a picture with him.

In the dim glow of the Batcave’s monitors, the world outside felt distant, muffled by the weight of silence and the endless stream of data scrolling before Tim’s eyes. Every second spent poring over surveillance feeds and dissecting encrypted files was a second closer—or so he hoped—to find Damian. Grief wasn’t an option; it was fuel. Each algorithm he ran, each lead he chased, was another thread in the intricate web that might bring Damian home.

The breakthrough came when exhaustion blurred his vision, but his mind refused to stop. A shipment manifest from Gotham’s docks flickered on the screen—mundane at first glance. But then, a familiar alias leaped out like a spark in the dark: Halventia Corporation. Tim sat bolt upright, fingers flying across the keyboard, connecting dots in rapid succession. Halventia was more than a shell company; it was a gateway to something darker. Among the maze of aliases, one name sent a shiver down his spine: Varos.

The name reverberated in Tim’s mind as he pulled up the corresponding case file, Project Nexus. Nexus—a word that suddenly felt too deliberate. A series of connections, linking two or more things. Like Damian. Like the streaks of metal woven into his brother’s spine.

Tim’s pulse quickened as the case unfolded on the screen, each detail tightening the noose around his gut.

CASE NUMBER: #405 – N0V0719. 

TITLE: Project Nexus

STATUS: In Progress

LOADING…

LOADING…

AUTHENTICATING…

OPENING FILE

Dr. Elias Varos, a name shrouded in secrecy and steeped in controversy, had vanished on March 27th under suspicious circumstances. Tim’s eyes darted over the notes.

Evidence

1. Camera Footage - 15th and 7th Intersection (March 27) - Timestamp shows Dr. Varos exiting his clinic at 7:42 PM on March 27th. He appears to look over his shoulder multiple times as if being followed.

• CAM_INTERS_0327-1942_VAROS_EXIT.AVI

2. Camera Footage - Gotham Harbor (March 27) - Grainy footage from a shipping yard camera captures a figure matching Varos’s build boarding an unregistered cargo vessel. The vessel departed under cover of night and appears on no maritime logs.

• CAM_HARBOR_0327-2B_UNID.FIGURE.AVI

3. GCPD Interview with Dr. Varos (November 14, 20##) - In an unrelated case involving a break-in at his clinic, Dr. Varos exhibited nervous behavior.

• GCPD_VAORS_NOV_14_15:07.AVI

4. Recovered Device - "Phaser Prototype" (April 15) - A small, unmarked device recovered in Old Gotham resembles experimental technology linked to Project Nexus. Initial analysis suggests the device has been modified to emit electrical pulses strong enough to incapacitate a large target.

• IMG_APRIL_15_FR_TXN.png

Tim’s hands trembled as he scanned the correspondence. The Phaser – Damian’s scream as it struck him, sharp and sudden, followed by the eerie silence of his unconscious collapse. The Fear Toxin-coated bullets – experimental technology that had been hidden as a weapon. But, it wasn’t made for just a weapon – it was made for Damian.  They had been waiting, biding their time under layers of aliases and mercenary fronts. They had been in Gotham all along, operating right under Tim’s nose—and he hadn’t seen it.

The pieces locked into place with a grim finality. Nexus was never just a research project. It was a manifesto, a doctrine, a merciless game of evolution through destruction. The cybernetic modifications, the neural-linked prosthetics, the nanotechnology—it all came back to Damian. Back to the metallic scars that now fused with his body, reminders of what he had been forced to endure.

A cold weight settled in Tim’s chest. The connection was undeniable now, as stark and unrelenting as the glow of the monitor before him. Damian wasn’t just a victim; he was the centerpiece of this grotesque vision.

Tim leaned back, the monitor’s glow catching the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. Nexus . It wasn’t just a name. It was a cruel irony, a promise that Damian was no longer just a person but a piece of something monstrous.

Damian wasn’t just lost somewhere out there—he was altered, rewritten, and turned into a living embodiment of this horrifying project. Tim exhaled shakily, his resolve hardening as the realization set in. He wasn’t just up against the clock anymore. He was up against a machine—a shadow network of cruelty, greed, and science gone too far.

“Got you,” Tim muttered under his breath, his fingers pausing briefly before diving back into the data. He cross-referenced the shipment’s destination with chatter from underground forums and black-market networks.

The pieces fell into place like a macabre puzzle.

Varos was hiding out in an old decommissioned military bunker just outside Gotham, deep in the forest. The bunker was practically invisible to satellite imaging, and its defenses were cutting-edge—a stronghold meant to keep people out.

Or keep someone in.

Tim bolted upright from his chair, his voice cutting through the cavernous space of the Batcave. “I’ve got something!”

Dick and Jason were there in moments, their urgency matching his.

“What is it?” Dick asked, his tone sharp but hopeful.

“Varos,” Tim said, spinning his chair to face them. “I think he’s working with Talia. I tracked one of his supply routes to an old bunker outside the city. If Varos is there, it’s the perfect place to keep him hidden.”

Jason frowned, his arms crossing. “And you’re sure this Varos guy is tied to Talia?”

Tim nodded, his confidence unwavering. “It lines up too perfectly. The timeline, the location, the resources. She’s using him to stay off our radar.”

“Then we move,” Jason said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve been itching to put a few rounds into someone’s skull, and this Varos sounds like the perfect candidate.”

Dick gave him a warning look but didn’t argue. “We’ll need a plan. If it’s a bunker, it’ll be heavily fortified. We can’t just charge in and hope for the best.”

Tim’s eyes were already back on the monitors. “I’ve got schematics from an old archive. The main entrance is a death trap, but there’s a secondary access point through the ventilation system. It’s a tight fit, but we can use it to bypass the guards and get inside. We’ll take him to a secondary location.”

Dick nodded, a small spark of pride in his expression. “Good work, Tim. We’ll prep and head out within the hour.”

As they moved to gather their gear, Jason lingered behind, watching Tim with an unreadable expression.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Replacement,” Jason said, his voice softer than usual.

Tim didn’t look up from his work. “Damian’s out there. Every second we waste, he’s further away—or worse.”

Jason hesitated, then sighed. “Just… don’t lose yourself in this. Damian’s not the only one who needs saving.”

Tim finally met his gaze, his expression hard but tinged with exhaustion. “If it were you, Jason, I’d be doing the same thing.”

Jason didn’t respond, but the brief flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, maybe—spoke volumes.

When the Batmobile roared to life an hour later, carrying Tim, Dick, and Jason toward the coordinates, the atmosphere was charged with determination.

Tim clutched his tablet, his mind racing through possible scenarios. He didn’t just want to find Damian; he needed to prove they hadn’t failed him.

Because failure wasn’t an option. Not for family.

The warehouse reeked of abandonment. Its walls, a patchwork of crumbling bricks, were streaked with years of grime and streaks of rust from leaky pipes overhead. Cobwebs clung to every corner, trembling faintly in the draft that whispered through shattered windows. The air was dense, a putrid mix of mildew, decayed wood, and the metallic tang of blood. The only light came from a single bare bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, its dim glow casting long, sinister shadows across the room.

Jason sat in the center of the chaos, a predator in his element. His chair scraped against the uneven wooden floor as he turned it to face Dr. Elias Varos. The rifle in his lap glinted dully in the light as his fingers brushed it with practiced ease. In his other hand, he toyed with a dented, rusted bat, the weapon making a low, ominous screech as he dragged it along the floorboards.

Dr. Varos sat bound to a splintered wooden chair, his suit torn and bloodied. His face was a mess of swollen flesh, a purpling bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a crimson trickle oozed from the corner of his mouth. His wrists were twisted at odd angles, and scars crossed over his face. He slumped slightly forward, his shoulders rigid but his hands trembling as they strained against the ropes biting into his wrists. Despite his condition, his lips curled into a defiant sneer, though his darting eyes betrayed his fear.

Behind Jason, Dick leaned against a steel support beam, shrouded in the shadows beyond the light’s reach. His arms were crossed tightly, his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles ached. He could feel his self-control slipping with every passing second, his body taut with the effort of holding himself back.

“You’re telling me what the fuck you did to the Demon’s Tail.” Jason’s voice was as hard as gravel, sharp as cut glass. He leaned forward in the chair, one hand on a loaded rifle, the other resting on a rusted metallic bat. 

The man smiled, teeth coated in blood, his face betraying nothing, but Dick noticed his trembling body. His hands fought against the ropes tying him to the wooden chair, spitting a chunk of blood onto the dirty wooden floor. “You think you…you scare me?” 

Jason leaned forward, dragging the metal bat against the raised wooden boards of the warehouse’s second floor. “Yeah. I think we do.” 

“The Bat doesn’t kill.” The man responded, eyes flickering from Dick’s shadowed figure to Jason’s. But Dick recognized the panic in the man’s eyes; one that came from pure, animalistic fear.

“Oh, you’re right about that, friend. But, if you recall, I’m Red Hood. The former robin. I stopped giving a shit about little Batsey the moment I got beat to death by the fucking Joker.” Jason got up suddenly, Varos flinching as Jason got closer. “You think I give a shit what the Bat thinks?”

The room was silent except for the faint creak of Jason’s boots on the old floorboards. His presence filled the space, suffocating in its intensity. Varos’s breath hitched, his bravado now completely gone. His eyes darted toward the shadows, silently pleading with the figure standing there.

Dick finally spoke, his voice tight and controlled, but edged with fury. “You’d better hope you’ve got something useful to tell us. Because if you don’t… I’m not sure even I can stop him.” The sound of his eskrima sticks sliding in his palms like the sharpening of a sword.

Jason leaned closer, his bat tapping lightly against the side of Varos’s chair. “Start talking. Or I’ll start breaking things.”

Before Varos could respond, a voice crackled softly through Jason’s earpiece. “Hood,” Tim’s whispered, calm but urgent. “If he gives you anything, wait. Let me verify it first. No loose ends.”

“The League will kill you for this,” Varos trembled, his smile withering away. 

“You think I give a shit what the fucking League does? They won’t get to me before I sink this bat into your skull.” The doctor’s trembling grew worse, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The air in the warehouse felt even colder, the weight of what was coming pressing down on all of them. “I can make this go fast. Or I can make it, so much worse.”

“ Bullshit .” The man said, flashing a smile again. “You know what I think? That little brat deserved it. Cried the whole time, like a big ol’ –” Jason kicked the chair, it falling to the ground with a sharp thunk! That cut through the air like a knife. The man huffed, blood oozing from where his head collided with the floor.

“You have 3 fucking seconds. One.” Jason walked forward, dragging the bat against the ground. Varos’ eyes widened as he spotted Jason standing above him. “Two.” Jason raised his bat, Dick standing up, ready to pull Jason back. “Thr–”

“WAIT, Wait!” The man said suddenly, words spurting out of his lips as Jason paused, the bat still hanging above him in mid-air.

“ Fuck. ..” Tim whispered in his ear, the sound of his keyboard pausing for just a moment. 

“The League had–had me working on a cybernetic chip. It used Crane’s Fear Toxin as a-a way of control. If they want him to do something, it will change what he sees – what he thinks. It wasn’t ready, but– but they made me finish it anyways.” 

Jason froze, the bat still suspended, his knuckles whitening around the handle. His narrowed eyes bore into Varos, scrutinizing every twitch and tremor for deception. The doctor’s chest heaved, his face glistening with a cold sweat that cut rivulets through the grime and blood.

Jason’s voice was low, dangerous. “You better not be fucking with me. Explain. Now .”

Varos gulped audibly, his bravado entirely replaced by fear. “It... it was experimental. Advanced tech. Nanotechnology fused with human tissue. They… they wanted him more obedient. It changes with him, the longer he has it in, the less likely he can tell the difference between nightmare and reality.” He choked on the words, his voice cracking.

Jason leaned in closer, the bat resting lightly on Varos’s thigh. “Who gave the order?”

Varos flinched at the contact, his breath hitching. “Ra’s al Ghul.”

Ra’s . Dick’s jaw tightened at the mention, his posture shifting as he stepped slightly out of the shadows. The faint outline of his face caught the flickering light, his glare matching Jason’s intensity.

Tim’s voice crackled again in Jason’s earpiece, sharp. Angry. “Hood, it fits his experience. We know that his research coincides with cybernetics.”

“What do you mean, ‘wasn’t ready’?” Dick asked, voice thin with anger. He stepped forward in the light, anger outlining every curve and muscle. Varos gulped, eyes darting in between Dick and Jason with feral fear.

“The Fear Toxin – by itself, the damage is minimal and can be lifted via the antidote. But… alongside the activation phrases, the– the results can be detrimental. I planned on reworking it, making it less potent. But, they insisted. I– ” Varos stammered out. 

Jason stopped pacing and turned sharply toward Varos, the air shifting suddenly as he cut the man off. “What the fuck do you mean, activation phrases?”

For a moment, Varos hesitated, his eyes darting between Jason and Dick as if weighing his options. Then, like a switch flipping, his demeanor shifted. The panic drained from his face, replaced by an unsettling calm. “You cannot defeat him. You can only hope to contain him.” 

Then came the faint click of a capsule breaking. Foam bubbled from Varos’s mouth, his body convulsing violently before going limp. His eyes rolled back, his body slumping lifelessly against the ropes.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Jason whispered, dropping the bat as he stared at the Doctor’s body. Dick backed up, eyes darting around in the shadows as if expecting the League to appear from the dark.

“No, no, no.” Tim’s voice came through the comm, panicked, accompanied by the furious clacking of keys. “They–they killed him remotely! They locked me out.”

Before anyone could respond, the faint screech of tires cut through the silence. Jason and Dick’s heads snapped toward the shattered windows, where faint headlights danced ominously against the warehouse walls.

Dick immediately reached for his comm. “Tim, do you see this? Someone’s coming.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Tim’s voice replied, tight with urgency. “It’s backup. And not the good type. You two need to get out of there. Right fucking now.”

Dick gave Jason a look, eyes tight with emotion. He nodded towards the window and Jason grunted before the two melted into the night, the Doctor’s body still against the floor.

The insistent knocking on Damian’s door jolted him from his drawing, the stroke stilted and wavy. Instantly, Damian felt a pang of fear as he glanced at his drawing – Mother would not approve of this activity. She had not sanctioned it.

And if Grandfather found out…

Damian shook his head, brushing off the collected charcoal on his League uniform, and stood by the door, posture straight. His calloused hands clasped behind his back as the door opened, a servant staring him up and down.

The servant had something in her eyes – an emotion that Damian had grown all too familiar with. Fear. As he followed behind her, she kept looking behind her shoulder, eyes glancing at his eyes as if he was a predator ready to pounce to the kill. 

When he entered the training room, his heart sank when he found his Mother standing above the platform. He bowed his head to the servant, walking towards the metallic training area and dropping to a knee. Damian ignored how his hands trembled behind his back. No tutor was watching over him – if he was going to train in front of Mother, it meant something was happening.

“Rise.” His mother commanded, cold as ice and expectant as ever. Damian rose, suddenly feeling something shift in the training room. “I am not here to test your physical prowess, or your intellectual capabilities. But rather one’s ability to obey.” She nodded over towards the opposite corner and out stepped a shadowed figure.

Instantly, Damian felt something twist at the back of his mind, like the flicking of a switch. And he knew something was very wrong about this demonstration. His eyes flicked toward his Mother and saw that she was smiling .

Something was very, very wrong.

“Do not disappoint me. Attachments are only there to harm you.” Talia smiled, then nodded at the figure. The figure pulled down his hood to reveal a scarred face, brown hair, cropped hair peeking out from his head, and black, emotionless eyes staring into Damian’s face. His face – was completely neutral, except for something antagonistic burning in his eyes.

It was hatred.

And then, the boy did something. He whistled. A soft whistle. Barely audible in the silence of the training room. 

The boy.

It was him. The one who was taken all those years ago, the only person who he called out for was his father.

He was the one who snuck up to Damian all those days ago.

Damian’s breath caught in his throat, the sound of that whistle reverberating like a distant echo from the past, bouncing against the walls of his mind. His legs went weak, the floor seeming to tilt beneath him as everything—every memory, every feeling he had buried—rose to the surface with the force of a tidal wave. 

The boy was back. But not like before.

The figure before him, scarred and hollow-eyed, was no longer the broken child Damian had once known. He was a weapon now, or something far darker—his eyes locked onto Damian with a hate that sent a chill crawling up his spine.

His heart began to beat louder in his chest, each thrum a painful reminder of the bond they once shared in those damp, suffocating cells. His mind screamed to run, to scream, to tear down the walls between them and fight for the boy he used to protect. But here, in this room, surrounded by the cold, impassive gaze of his mother, there was no escape. There was only the weight of her words: attachments are only there to harm you.

The boy’s lips curled, the faintest of smirks dancing across his scarred face as he took a step forward. And then, as if on command, he raised his arms, his fists clenched, eyes burning with fury and years of torment. Damian’s pulse quickened.

“You know what must be done,” Talia’s voice was ice, slicing through the fog of his mind like a blade. “Show me that you’ve learned well, my son. Show me that you can follow through on your purpose.” Her smile was too wide, too full of cruel satisfaction. Damian could feel the sting of her gaze like a searing brand against his skin.

The boy stepped closer. The years between them melted away in that moment, leaving only two people who had once been connected, now forced to fight for survival in a world that wanted nothing more than to break them both. The air in the room thickened, and Damian’s fists clenched at his sides, his muscles frozen, every instinct screaming to do something—anything—but he couldn’t.

Damian’s throat felt tight, constricted by the weight of his mother’s gaze. His heart tore at the sight of the boy— the boy he had once promised that he would live, now standing before him as an enemy.

“Fight,” Talia ordered, her voice no longer a suggestion but a command.

The boy— no, the man —stepped into a fighting stance. His eyes were nothing like the terrified, shattered creature Damian had once whispered to in the dark. No, this version was filled with relentless fury, a need for revenge that burned hotter than any fire Damian had ever felt.

Damian didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?”

“No.” Damian had paused, glancing up towards the vent, a rare moment of peace. “I will not allow it.”

“Okay.” He had answered, weak and fragile like an autumn leaf.

The boy lunged, and instinct, as cold and unforgiving as the walls around them, took over. Damian drew his blade in a single, smooth motion, the sound of steel singing through the air as he parried the boy’s strike. The clash of metal echoed through the room, and for a moment, it felt as though the world had frozen around them.

But the boy didn’t stop. He came at him again, and again, each strike sharper, more forceful, more full of hatred.

With each attack, his heart wavered, torn between the ruthless training he’d been subjected to and the boy he had sworn to protect. The bot before him wasn’t just a soldier. He was a broken piece of his past, and each cut he made felt like a wound through Damian’s very soul.

Distantly, Damian knew what his team would say. They would condemn him, urge him to fight the impulse clawing at his chest, to find a way out of this twisted path. They would tell him there was still time, still a chance to save both himself and the boy. But in the silence of his mind, their voices were fading, becoming muffled by the weight of the orders that pressed upon him like a suffocating fog.

Damian wanted to be normal. He wanted to feel the warmth of affection, to know what it was like to laugh without the bitter aftertaste of guilt or violence. He longed for a world where he could be a child again, without the constant weight of expectations. He wanted to feel the embrace of those he once called family, to see their smiles without the fear of disappointment or betrayal hanging over him. But deep down, he believed he was beyond redemption, that his past, his blood, had already sealed his fate.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly human—just a child, not a weapon. He knew that every step he had taken, every decision made in the name of duty, had pulled him further away from the innocent life he’d once dreamt of. He had crossed too many lines, sullied too many parts of his soul to ever return to that place.

And yet, even as the command echoed in his mind, his heart hesitated. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would feel like to refuse. To stand up against the suffocating grip of his orders, to be the person they all believed he could be.

But the thought was quickly quashed, drowned by the cold certainty that had settled into his bones. He wasn’t that person anymore. He couldn’t be.

He was just following orders. He was too far gone.

Did they think he was capable of anything else?

He dodged another attack, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade so tightly it threatened to crack under the pressure. The boy’s eyes never wavered from his face, the hatred deepening with every passing second. The more Damian hesitated, the sharper the boy’s attacks became.

And then, as if the walls of the room themselves were closing in, Damian made his decision.

Kill him. 

The words pressed against him, urging him. And when Damian raised his arm, he closed his eyes.

His sword arced through the air, a blur of steel, a testament to everything he had been trained to become. The boy’s eyes widened in shock, a fraction of a second too slow. Damian’s blade connected. There was no scream. There was no sound except the sickening thud of flesh meeting steel.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The boy’s eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto Damian’s—there was a flicker of recognition in those eyes.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

The boy crumpled to the floor, the weight of the years between them crushing everything they had once shared. Damian stood over him, his breath ragged, his body trembling, and his heart split open.

“Dad?” The boy’s whisper reached his ears, a final question, one that would echo in Damian’s mind for the rest of his life.

And Damian could not answer.

The silence in the room was deafening. His mother’s smile still lingered in the corner of his vision, but it no longer held any satisfaction. Only an emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside.

Damian didn’t even know his name.

As he stared at the body on the floor, he felt something tight work up his throat. His mind was a storm of emotions that seemed to crash against everything he had ever known. Damian’s chest ached. 

“You hesitated . But, I will forgive your… indiscretion.” Talia’s voice cut through the air like broken glass, cruel in its composure. Her eyes scanned the scene, the boy’s crumpled body. “Emotions inhibit your growth, my dear. They are…painful, yes? Speak.”

Damian hesitated, then nodded, his voice dull and sunken. “Yes,” his voice, cracked. 

“Allow me to help you, my dear.” As his mother stepped forward, her boots clinking softly against the metal floor, she rested a hand on his shoulder. The moment her fingers made contact with his skin, Damian's entire body stiffened, a wave of emotion crashing through him that he hadn't anticipated. His breath hitched, his muscles momentarily locking in place as if he were frozen in time.

The warmth of her hand, so gentle, so foreign, seeped into him, grounding him in a way he had forgotten to crave. He didn’t remember what it felt like to be touched like this—by her. To be seen not as an heir, not as a weapon, but as a person, as her child. It was like a long-lost language, one his body had once spoken fluently, now awkward and alien on his tongue, like trying to recall a melody forgotten with time.

Through the haze of pain and the silence that surrounded him, his mind wandered back, flickering to memories that felt as though they belonged to someone else. He remembered how the touch of others used to feel, back when there was warmth in the world. How Dick would lean against him, a hand on his shoulder when they walked side by side, how Tim would sit with him, legs crossed over his lap as they read together, how Jason would ruffle his hair in playful disarray. And Father… how Father’s hand would always find its way to his shoulder when he was hurt, a silent reassurance in a world that had often been too harsh.

Damian slowly leaned into the touch now, each movement a quiet rebellion against the years that had stripped him of the tenderness he once knew. With every day, with every new person in his life, they had shown him—however briefly—that touch could be soft, that it could be a comfort rather than a burden, a reminder that he wasn’t just an instrument of war. That for just a moment, he was allowed to be someone’s son, someone’s brother.

Each moment showed him that touch didn’t always have to hurt.

But that moment was fleeting, slipping through his fingers like the sand of a forgotten time. The touch was still there, but the warmth no longer reached him in the way it once did. And all he could do was lean into it, knowing it was a feeling he had lost—and perhaps could never fully reclaim.

Damian swallowed the sob that threatened to tear him apart, forcing the storm of emotion back into the depths of himself. He focused on the warmth of his mother’s hand, a touch that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand untold things. His breath hitched as he leaned into it, the soft pressure spreading through him like the first spark of heat in a cold, lifeless room. It was fleeting, a momentary contact, but in that brief eternity, it filled the hollow places inside him—places he had long forgotten to feel.

His chest tightened, an unfamiliar ache blooming in his heart. It was a strange, violent twist of need, longing, and guilt, the taste of something human he had been denied. A hunger so basic, so simple—something that was never meant to be his.

“My dear, I have a solution for this aching mind of yours. Close your eyes.”

And so, he did. With her hand still resting gently on his shoulder, Damian closed his eyes, letting the heat from her touch seep deeper into his skin. His sword clattered to the floor with a dull thud, its weight forgotten. A single tear, fragile and silent, slipped down his blood-streaked face. It was a confession, a surrender to the ache that had never found solace, to the boy he no longer knew how to be.

But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away, didn’t twist his arm, or carve her betrayal into his flesh. She didn’t hurt him. She simply—was. She did love him.

She did.

"Seventeen. Honor. Cold. Benign. Nine. Whistle. Them."

Her words began to fade into the dark, swallowing them up in a silence that wrapped itself around him like a cold shroud. They slipped through his fingers like smoke, lost in the void.

And for the first time in his life, Damian didn’t feel a thing. The ache, the longing, the confusion—they were gone, as if they had never existed at all. All that remained was a hollow stillness, as vast and empty as the space between them.

Chapter Text

When Jason and Dick get back to the manor, a little worse for wear, Tim is pacing the room. His eyes are frantic and heavy. 

“We’re still fucking blind,” Tim muttered, voice trembling with fury. “He’s still out there, getting worse every day. And all we did was—” His hands clenched into fists before he threw papers to the floor. His breath caught in his throat. “Fucking let the one person die!”

Tim sank into the chair, covering his face with his hands, and shaking his head. His fingers clenched into his scalp as he exhaled in heavy, uneven breaths. The room felt stifling under the weight of his frustration.

Dick and Jason share a look, but before they can move to comfort the teenager, Bruce enters. His presence filled the room like a storm cloud, his shadow long and foreboding as he stepped into the dimly lit space. The thunder of his anger was written in the sharp set of his jaw, in the tense lines of his shoulders, but the flicker in his eyes gave him away—something raw and breaking beneath the surface.

Jason and Dick froze mid-step, caught in the crosshairs of his glare. Tim remained in the chair, his face buried in his hands, his breath uneven and shallow.

Bruce’s voice came low and cold, the kind of tone that made even the most hardened of men stand still. "You went out. Without telling me."

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce cut him off with a single, raised hand.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?" His voice cracked, but he pressed on, his words sharp as broken glass. "You interrogated Varos. You put yourselves at risk. And for what?"

Jason bristled, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “We got closer to the truth than you ever have, Bruce.” His voice was steady, defiant. Behind the anger, was the distinct look of anguish and regret. “We couldn’t sit here and do nothing while Damian—”

Bruce’s expression darkened, and his voice rose, unsteady with grief and anger. "Do you think I’m doing nothing ? Do you think I don’t feel it every second of every day that he’s out there, suffering because—” He cuts himself off with a huff, rubbing at his eyes as he leans against the console table.

His bulking shoulders seem to deflate within themselves – as if he is sinking back. Bruce’s eyes flicker through a multitude of emotions as his eyes scan the battered bodies of his sons. Bruised, cut, but alive. 

The faces of his sons—his boys, his sons—drifted in the corners of his mind, haunting him with every breath. The weight of past mistakes pressed heavily against his ribs. He had failed them before. He had failed them all.

How many times had he stood by, paralyzed by his indecision, while they fought for their lives? How many times had they almost died on his watch? His inaction had cost him dearly. Their deaths—each one a shard of his broken heart—echoed through his very soul, a constant reminder that he was not enough. He hadn’t been enough to save them.

When he turned his head back to the others, their faces were a mixture of defensiveness and guilt, anger and grief. They were all hurting – aching for a boy who wasn’t there, minds swirling for answers he couldn’t give them.

Bruce was getting tired of this song and dance – of constantly worrying whether he would get to see his sons’ faces – their smirks, and laughter that filled the air like sparks of electricity. How, even now, they still felt so small in his arms.

“We’re going to find Damian, and we’re bringing him back,” Bruce said, his voice steady, cold, a sharp edge cutting through the weight of his grief. The League had crossed a line, one too many times. This time, he wouldn’t let them take anything more from him—not his son, not his family. “What did Varos say? Tim, you have the recording correct? Maybe we can’t use his words…but his research, that, we can use.” Bruce turns around, and Tim nods, wiping at his eyes.

Jason nodded, although he stared at Bruce with something in his eyes, leaning forward and scowling once Varos’ face came onto the screen. It was like looking at something writhing at the bottom of his foot – desperate for a chance at escape, and looking for anything to let itself free. 

They watched the video back, eyes reflecting the computer screen. After the video played, a heavy silence settled over the room. The room felt suffocating—Tim’s hands still shook slightly, Jason’s jaw was clenched tightly, and Dick stood near the wall, his expression a storm of unresolved emotions. Bruce sat at the head of the table, hands steepled in front of him, his eyes focused, but distant. The shadows deepened under his gaze as if the weight of the past and the present had eclipsed his usual calm.

“Varos said the words, ‘activation phrases.’ Like…Dami’s some sort of computer. A robot,” Dick began, his voice uncharacteristically heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident in every movement. “He didn’t tell us anything else. It’s like…it’s hidden somewhere.”

“It has to be encoded,” Tim muttered, his voice barely audible as his mind raced. He paced the length of the room, one hand pressed to his temple. “A man like Varos wouldn’t leave something like that out in the open. If those phrases are what’s controlling Damian, they’re buried in something—hidden in plain sight.”

Jason crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of the desk. “So, what are we looking for? A cipher? A key? Because if he took it to his grave, then this whole thing is pointless.”

“No,” Tim said sharply, stopping mid-stride. He turned to face them, his eyes alight with the sharp focus that only came when his mind was fully engaged. “People like Varos don’t trust anyone. Not even their handlers. There’s no way he would rely solely on memory. He left breadcrumbs—we just have to find them.”

Dick and Jason exchanged a glance, their unease tempered by the flicker of hope in Tim’s determination.

Tim dropped to his knees in front of the pile of papers he had thrown earlier, sifting through them with a renewed sense of purpose. “He kept detailed notes—meticulous ones. Every interaction, every experiment, every variable. It’s all here. Somewhere in these notes, there has to be a clue.”

Jason groaned but knelt beside him, picking up a crumpled sheet and scanning it. “Fine. But if I see another diagram of someone’s nervous system, I’m gonna lose it.”

Dick grabbed a stack of papers and perched on the arm of a chair, flipping through them with practiced speed. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up. Tim, what are we looking for? Numbers? Letters?”

“Patterns,” Bruce began, bending down and cross-referencing pages and scribbling in the margins of a notebook. “Anything that doesn’t belong—strings of numbers, odd phrases, anything repeated that feels out of place.”

The room fell into a tense silence, broken only by the shuffling of papers and the scratch of Tim’s pen. Hours passed, the weight of their task pressing down on them like an unrelenting force. Jason tapped his fingers against the floor, his frustration growing with every dead end.

Then, Tim’s voice broke out from silence, like a clap of thunder.

“ Oh my god, ” Tim turned back, hands flurrying over the keyboard as he accessed Varos’ notes. “I was looking at Varos’ notes earlier and they seemed completely fine. Normal, for what his experiment was. I thought there could be more, but I wasn’t sure.” 

"Okay," Tim muttered, leaning closer to the screen, his voice barely a whisper. "When we were talking to him, he mentioned something about images. But, I think that he’s hidden something within the images themselves. Like…a cipher of some sort.” Jason leaned forward, squinting at the flurry of texts and images on the screen. His mind followed it to a point, but they

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening as he crossed the room to Tim’s side. "A cipher? Can you read it?"

Tim nodded, his breath shaky but determined. "I think so. At first, I thought it might be a common one—Caesar, Vigenère, something like that. But the more I looked, the more I realized it wasn’t. Look, here are the original notes.”

RESEARCH NOTES: Project Nexus - #KO18-U
Date: 09/30/20##
Researcher: Dr. Varos (Research Lead)
Status: Active; Subject remains uncontained
Protocol: Neural Integration Study

Website: https://www.projectnexuslabs.com/folder/experimental-logs/VGhlYm95aXNsb3N0dW5sZXNzb25lc2V2ZXJzdGhlaGVhZG9mdGhlZGVtb24uDQo= ←

LOADING….

LOADING….

AUTHENTICATING…

OPENING NOTES

SUMMARY:
The subject’s integration with the biochip remains incomplete. Activation, designed to trigger neurophysiological responses, remains effective. The commands appear to cause a shift in behavior, but complete management is yet to be achieved. Further analysis is required.

DATA POINTS:

1. Activation Phrases:

• Observed commands cause changes in the Subject's cognitive functions. Immediate neural destabilization occurs, including a flicker response in the temporal cortex.
• Activation can be changed based on the Subjects’ lives and known traumas’
• Following Activation, the subject becomes robotic and unable to feel pain
• Will follow commands without disregard for one’s safety or feelings – may damage Limbic system if in use for too long 

2. Neurophysiological Effects:

• The brain’s reaction to the activation suggests interference with synaptic transmission. Damaged neural pathways exhibit both resistance and unpredictable flickering when commanded.
• The incomplete biochip is currently failing to perform the intended tasks. Neural feedback is erratic. 

IMAGES (4 out of 26 shown):

• https://www.projectnexuslabs.com/images/experiment-log-013.jpg
• https://www.projectnexuslabs.com/images/experiment-log-283.jpg
• https://www.projectnexuslabs.com/images/experiment-log-937.jpg
• https://www.projectnexuslabs.com/images/experiment-log-157.jpg ←

__________________________________Expand______________________________

LOADING….

LOADING…

AUTHENTICATING…

OPENING FILE

“I mean, they seem completely normal. But, look at this image: specifically titled ‘experiment-log-157.jpg’. 15th and 7th is the street in which he disappeared. You can hide code and text within images. It’s called –”

“Steganography,” Dick muttered, leaning forward at the digital copy of one of the notes.

Tim nodded, clicking the image with a click of the mouse. “There’s something here. I think this is encoded too.” As he clicked on the image, decoding it with the click of a button, he smiled. “Base 64, the asshole.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, eyes scanning the decoded message with his mouth set in a hard line.

“ Long-Term Effects (LTFs):
The subject is showing signs of delayed cognitive response after activation phrases. It's as though the boy is trapped in a loop of emotional distress, unable to process reality for minutes after the phrases are spoken. I never intended for this to happen, but now... now I see the consequences of rushing the process. The incomplete biochip is failing, its neural feedback is erratic at best. They forced me to finish it early, ignoring every warning I gave. They were so eager to control him, to use him, that they didn’t care about the risks. Fools, all of them.

Phase 1 (triggered response):
Aggression spikes, followed by a delayed physical response. Cognitive dissonance takes hold, leaving him confused and disoriented. Subject may not remember events that took place.

Phase 2 (aftereffects):
Dizziness, severe migraines, blurred vision after activation. His muscles twitch uncontrollably—likely the result of interrupted motor functions, a side effect I never wanted to see.

Phase 3 (long-term effects):
Seizures, vomiting blood, and memory loss after prolonged exposure to activation. Continued exposure…. 

I... I didn't know it would go this far. Not like this. The installation of the chip is incomplete, and yet they insisted we move forward. Forty percent of the data pathways are still unprogrammed, leaving the boy’s brain to try and integrate incompatible commands.

I’ve lost control. They’ve all but condemned him to this fate, and now... I’m trapped in this nightmare with no way out.”

Bruce grimaced at the code, scowling. “We need to get him out. Now.” He growled, whipping around and staring at his suit with renewed vengeance.

Tim shook his head, standing up. “We have no idea where he is. Damian could be anywhere in the world right now. But we’re not completely without options. There’s always the possibility that more people were involved—people who knew what Varos was doing, who were part of this from the start. There were 6 other people who went missing along with Doctor Varos.”

"Tim, get me names. All of them." Bruce’s voice was tight, but there was a flicker of hope beneath the frustration.

Tim nodded, already pulling up the extensive files they'd gathered on Project Nexus, a frown creasing on his brow. "I’ll start with the project logs and any external communications. It’s possible there were more researchers, one of them has to be related to the missing persons cases."

Jason’s voice was a low growl from behind them, his fists still clenched in anger. "I don’t care who it is. We find them, and we break them open until they tell us where Damian is."

Dick, silent until now, finally spoke up, his tone calm but purposeful. "We can’t just start breaking people open. We need evidence, Bruce. Information. If there were more people involved, we need to know who and where they are, not just rush in blind and risk losing Damian forever."

Tim's eyes flashed with determination. "I’ll cross-check his records against known associates, any leads we have on Project Nexus. It’s possible that the League has more involvement here than we’ve realized. They wouldn’t let something this important slip through their fingers."

Jason’s voice cut through, raw and full of frustration. "Every second we waste is another second Damian spends in whatever hell they’ve put him in. We don’t have the luxury of time."

"Then we move faster," Bruce said, turning to face them all, his voice an icy command. "We find whoever was involved, and we make them help us. No more games."

As the team moved to gather information, Tim's fingers flew across the keyboard. "I found something. A list of related research projects. Some of them... they’re still active." His eyes narrowed as he clicked through more data, his voice low and focused. "We need to follow the trail. It’s not over yet."

Bruce's eyes hardened. "Then let’s start following. And make sure no one gets away this time."

With that, the team scattered into their respective tasks, each consumed by the shared goal of finding Damian—and the ones who had made him into their weapon. Every second counted.

Damian body convulsed as he awoke, sharp, jagged pain coursing through his spine like molten steel. His vision swam, the dim light of the cold, stone room bleeding into itself. He clenched his teeth, feeling a strange pull at his mind—faint whispers gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

The pain was unlike anything he had known. Damian had been whipped and burned, electrocuted and cut, stabbed and punched. He had thought himself immune to agony, his tolerance forged in fire and blood. But this—this was something entirely new, something beyond the limits of comprehension. It was as if every nerve in his body had been set ablaze, and his spine itself was being torn apart, strand by strand.

Damian gasped and his hands trembled as they gripped the edge of the cot, fingers digging into the frayed fabric. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, each one catching in his throat. Tears burned in his eyes, and desperate to release the torment, he turned his face into the coarse pillow and screamed, the sound muffled but raw, as though it were tearing from the very core of him. 

His head throbbed, his skull feeling as though it had cracked open. His back arched involuntarily, sending a fresh wave of pain through him, and then—blackness.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to silence, broken only by his ragged breathing. His palms bore the marks of his nails, bloody crescent moons pressed deep into the skin. He tasted iron on his tongue, faint and bitter, as he forced himself to sit upright. The room around him was unyielding, its stone walls bare save for the faint glow of a single light hanging overhead.

His drawing of the manor was gone. The soft lines, once carefully etched, had vanished beneath a sea of smudged graphite and stray eraser marks, as though the memories themselves had crumbled under the weight of his hands. Damian stared at the blank space where it had been, his breath shallow, his chest tight with an ache he couldn’t name. The grief rose slowly, a tide he couldn’t stop, threatening to drown him as he shoved the fragile, fleeting echoes of warmth behind the cold, unyielding walls of his reality.

Tim had promised him that he could draw, create, and always be there.

But Tim wasn’t here. None of them were.

Liar.

The word burned in his mind, carving itself into the hollows of his heart. He clenched his fists, trembling, as the bitterness seeped into his thoughts, poisoning every fragile moment he’d ever cherished. How long? How long had they watched him through veiled eyes, resenting what they saw? How long had they looked at him and seen only the parts that didn’t belong—the fractured, mechanical pieces that made him a weapon and not a boy?

He had tried so hard to believe in their love. The warmth of Dick’s laughter, the steadfast strength of Jason’s presence, Tim’s quiet reassurances—they had wrapped around him like armor, fragile but impenetrable in his heart. And now… now it felt like a cruel illusion.

How long had their love rotted into fear? Into anger? Into something that saw him not as family, but as something other , something they tolerated but never truly embraced?

Damian closed his eyes, trying to will away the images, but they lingered—ghostly and faint, mocking him with their sweetness. His chest ached as he recalled the fleeting moments of comfort, of belonging, now twisted into shadows of betrayal.

He wanted to scream. To tear apart the emptiness in his chest, to claw at the lies and false promises until they no longer hurt. But all he could do was sit there, the erasure of the manor staring back at him as if daring him to try again.

The warmth he’d once clung to felt distant now, replaced by a cold, creeping certainty:

Their love had never truly been his to keep.

The air smelled faintly metallic, tinged with blood and the acrid bite of antiseptics. Damian’s gaze drifted downward, catching on the bandages wrapped around his torso. Beneath the layers, his muscles ached as if they had been torn apart and crudely stitched back together. His fingers twitched at his sides, instinctively moving toward the wounds, but he stopped himself.

The ache in his head deepened. Something was missing. Fragmented images—his memories—flitted through his mind, ephemeral and disjointed. He tried to piece them together, but the harder he focused, the more they slipped away like sand spilling between his fingers.

The faintest trace of a smell drifted to him—fat and pork. It clawed its way into his mind, vivid and nauseating. He gagged, the bitter taste still lingering as he shoved the thought away, his stomach twisting.

Bracing himself, Damian pushed to rise, only to cry out as his legs buckled beneath him. He crumpled to the ground, his body landing hard on the stone floor. Fresh pain lanced through him, and he glanced down to see his feet, crudely bandaged and stained with blood. They felt numb, disconnected from the rest of him, yet every step he tried to take sent fire shooting up his legs.

He tried to force himself upright, but the effort was unsuccessful. Damian collapsed back onto the floor, trembling, his breaths shallow and quick. He could still hear those faint and insistent whispers threading through his thoughts.

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing back the wave of frustration. You must not fail. The words came unbidden, searing through the chaos in his mind.

So, he stood, legs trembling as he dragged himself upwards, fighting gravity with heavy knees and wobbly bones. It was like the Earth itself had dragged him down. 

A small plate of food sat near the door. The sight of it was enough to make his stomach turn, yet he lunged for it, ravenous and weak. He shoved the scraps into his mouth, swallowing past the bitter taste. As he ate, his gaze fell on a slip of paper next to the plate.

“Mission: Accomplished. Practice on one’s accuracy with a dagger.” 

Damian lets out a breath, trembling as he finishes his plate. And, in the back of his crawling, writhing mind, he curses at himself. How the soft human of him writhes in fear at this statement, of how he went from saving civilians to killing them in cold blood. How he had become accustomed to meeting them with the soft curve of his boyish hands rather than the cold, unfeeling steel. How far he had fallen. He cursed himself for feeling, for thinking, for the whisper of humanity still clawing its way through his walls.

He wonders if he looks deep enough, beneath the layers of tissue, will there be anything underneath? How he had sacrificed his life, and his dreams only to find that was all his humanity was – empty promises and broken dreams. 

And if he tore open his chest, pulled apart the ribs to grasp the heart within, would it still beat? Or would it crumble in his hands, revealing nothing but the void he had become?

Damian stood in the center of the cold, unyielding room, a dagger resting in his hand. His legs trembled under his weight, and the ache in his spine was a constant reminder of his limits. Yet, he couldn’t stop. His mother’s note sat in the corner of his mind, taunting him with her expectation: Practice accuracy.

His breath steadied, though each inhale felt like dragging air through fire. The dagger felt heavier than it should in his hand, the balance familiar yet foreign, as though his body remembered how to hold it while his mind struggled to keep up. He squared his stance, eyes locking on the target painted on the far wall—a crude circle hastily drawn, its center marked with a small red dot.

Damian raised the blade, adjusting his grip. The whispers in the back of his mind surged, faint and teasing, but he shoved them aside. Focus. His muscles screamed as he shifted his weight, the motion sharp and deliberate. He hurled the dagger, the blade spinning through the air.

It struck just shy of the red dot, embedding itself with a metallic thunk . Too far left. Damian frowned, his teeth grinding as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. He retrieved the blade with slow, deliberate movements, each step testing the fragile balance of his battered body.

Again.

Hours blurred into a haze, the passage of time marked only by the relentless whirl of the training dummies. They moved faster now, darting in unpredictable patterns, their erratic shifts almost hypnotic in their disorienting chaos. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls a suffocating blur of motion and shadow, the mechanical hum of the dummies blending into the pounding of his heartbeat.

Damian’s breath heaved, ragged and uneven, his chest rising and falling like a broken bellows. Sweat carved trails down his torn back, stinging the raw edges of wounds he could no longer feel. His hands moved on instinct, muscle memory overriding exhaustion as he launched dagger after dagger.

Head. Shoulder. Eye. Heart.

Each throw was a strike against the confusion, a desperate attempt to impose order on the relentless chaos in front of him. But the dummies were relentless, their speed and unpredictability mirroring the storm inside him. Time stretched and folded in on itself, hours bleeding together until they became meaningless. All that remained was the rhythm of his movements and the ever-present demand for perfection.

Head. Shoulder. Eye. Heart.

The rhythm was unbroken, mechanical, and ingrained into his very being. But in the milliseconds before the next throw, Damian faltered. One of the dummies—its movements faster, its clothing unfamiliar—seemed to morph before his eyes. For a fleeting, imperceptible moment, it wasn’t a target. It was DIck.

The sight jolted through him like a dagger to the chest. The outfit, the stance—it didn’t belong to the dummy. It belonged to Dick. Damian’s pulse quickened, the air around him heavy and suffocating.

And for the briefest, imperceptible moment, Damian hesitated because he couldn’t just throw a dagger at someone whose laughter seemed to rock his body in waves, whose speed and flexibility meant that Damian didn’t stand a chance at dodging his hair ruffles.

The next throw was closer, but not perfect. 

He missed.

On the next attempt, as he shifted for the throw, a jolt of white-hot pain arced through his spine. His body twisted violently, his muscles locking up as if seized by an invisible force. The dagger slipped from his fingers, clattering harmlessly to the ground as Damian collapsed, his knees slamming into the cold stone.

Then, he felt it.

A hand.

Soft, steady, and warm, it rested on his shoulder. Damian’s breath hitched, the sensation so vivid it nearly startled him. For a fleeting moment, he could almost hear the voice he hadn’t heard in what felt like years — soft but filled with a determination that always caught him off guard.

“Get up, Dami.”

The words echoed in his mind, grounding him. Dick. But Damian knew better. Dick wasn’t here. Dick would never be here again, not for Damian. He knows this better than the feeling of his breath, the stretch of his skin over tissue. 

But sometimes, he just wants to pretend.

In the small moments, that after he succeeds or accomplishes a task, he’ll hear the man’s warm praise or the sharp chuckle from–

A bitter pang of grief pierced through him, sharper than any blade. He stayed on the ground for a moment longer, eyes burning with unshed tears. Then, with a trembling hand, he pushed himself up, every movement agonizingly slow. His legs wavered beneath him, but he forced them to hold.

He picked up the dagger, its hilt cool and familiar against his palm. Damian spat a chunk of blood from his mouth onto the cement floor.

And he rose from the floor with trembling limbs.

Sometimes, after patrol, when he was sweaty and gross, the manor still and quiet, Tim would come into Damian’s room. There was nothing particularly “Damian” about it – the walls were still barren and the closet pitifully empty. Yet, his sketchbook laid on the desk, with small notes, and pictures of birds. 

When Tim went through the journal, it felt like there was still someone to mourn – rather than the shell of a boy forced to shed his humanity like coats slipping from his shoulders. The boy was an observer – a lens that seemed to magnify all the interactions around him.

But when Tim entered the bedroom, he spotted Dick laying against the bed, clutching the small T-Shirt that Damian had bought for himself from the mall a few weeks ago. It was a simple evergreen shirt, with a small symbol on the edge. But, Dick leaned into it like it was as precious as his stuffed elephant. 

Tim felt something caught in his throat when he saw Dick smell it a little. 

“Hey,” he said softly, knocking on the doorframe to make himself noticeable. Dick smiled at him, a sad, tired smile. Like it was plastered on him, barely able to hold on before falling. Tim took a seat next to Dick on the floor, glancing at the sword resting on his dresser, swiping the journal before taking a seat. Damian had come into their lives with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a sword on his hip. The League Apparel was still in his closet, though Tim knew if he touched it, he would only do so before setting it afire. 

“Fuck,” Dick said softly, leaning his head back against the bed. His shoulders were loose, and he hadn’t been back to Bludhaven since Damian’s disappearance. 

Tim rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the sword for a long moment. The way it caught the dim light from the hallway felt too deliberate as if even the inanimate things in Damian’s room were mourning him. The blade gleamed with a soft menace, a reminder of the boy who wielded it with precision beyond his years. Damian had carried it like an extension of himself, yet now it sat there, abandoned and cold.

“Y’know, I promised him, the night before he was…taken. I promised hi–” Tim’s voice cracked, but he continued, hands curling around the leather journal. “I promised him that I wouldn’t let anyone take him away. It was…so fucking stupid too.” He gave a hollow chuckle, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. “He probably hates me. I–I hate me,” Tim whispered, his head hanging low as his chest shuddered with small sobs. 

Dick leaned closer, wrapping an arm around the teenager’s neck, pulling the boy’s head to his lips, and kissing the top of his messy black hair. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.” He chanted the words over and over like a hymn – a prayer to all his little brothers. The tears slipped down his cheeks as he cradled Tim, and the two allowed themselves to grieve together.

Tim slowly pulled away, wiping at his eyes. Dick smiled at him, softly, encouraging. His fingers twisted in the fabric like it might dissolve if he let go. The evergreen color had faded slightly, worn from too many washes in too little time. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up,” Dick said finally, his voice hoarse. “That this is all… some nightmare. That he’s still here, still calling me names and asking for sparring rounds.”

He closed his eyes tightly, his throat working against a sob he refused to let escape. “God, Tim. He hated me giving him nicknames, but I’d give anything to say it one more time. To look at his confused face, but allow it anyways without complaint.”

The silence in the room was stifling, thick with unspoken apologies and regrets. It was a space in which confessions came and went—the ones that hovered on the edge of lips but never crossed, swallowed down like bitter pills because speaking them might make the pain unbearable.

Tim began to flip the journal open to a random page. The sketches stared back at him, sharp and precise, each stroke of graphite a piece of Damian’s soul laid bare. He turned to a page filled with scribbled notes—observations, plans, stray thoughts. Damian’s mind on paper, was brilliant and chaotic and entirely too grown for his years.

“Do you think…” Tim started, then stopped, unsure if the words should even leave his mouth. He stared at the sketches of birds in the margins, their wings frozen mid-flight. “Do you think he ever hated us for bringing him here? For showing him this life, just to have it… taken from him?”

Dick looked at him sharply, a flash of pain crossing his face. “No,” he said firmly, though his voice cracked. “No.” He let out a shaky breath, his hands loosening their grip on the shirt. “He was a part of this family. And I’ll die before he forgets that.”

Tim nodded, but the ache in his chest didn’t fade. He set the journal down, suddenly feeling like he was intruding on something too sacred to touch.

After a long stretch of silence, Dick whispered, “Do you think he’s still… him? Wherever he is now?”

Tim didn’t answer. He didn’t know if there was an answer. Instead, he reached out, his hand resting briefly on Dick’s shoulder, grounding him.

Dick’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as he struggled to swallow the sob clawing its way up his throat. The idea of Tim hearing him cry felt unbearable, another crack in the carefully constructed facade he’d been holding together. But then he felt Tim’s hand on his shoulder—a soft, grounding pressure that both broke him further and kept him steady. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tim swipe at his damp cheeks.

How many times had he buried his brothers? How many times had he carried this unbearable weight, mourning someone who was still alive?

A tremor rolled through him, and he gritted his teeth against it. But the grief twisted inside him, tangling with something hotter, sharper. The helplessness he’d been drowning in all these weeks ignited into anger—a blazing, righteous fury.

His grip on the shirt tightened until his knuckles turned white. “I’ll raze the League to the ground,” he said, his voice breaking as it climbed from the pit of his chest. It was thick with rage and sorrow—fire and water, colliding and rising in him like a storm. It was a shame how fire and water repelled each other; they looked so beautiful next to each other.

Tim blinked at him, his grief momentarily overshadowed by the raw intensity in Dick’s voice.

“I’ll tear them apart for what they’ve done to him,” Dick continued, his tone trembling with the sheer force of his conviction. “They think they can take him, twist him, erase him —” His voice cracked again, but he didn’t stop. “They don’t get to do that. Not to him. Not to us.”

Tim nodded quietly, the spark of determination flickering in his eyes despite the overwhelming weight of his sorrow. He didn’t speak, because there was nothing to say. Dick’s words were a promise and one they would carry together.

In the stillness that followed, Dick let his head fall back against the bed frame, his breath shuddering. The fire still burned in his chest, but the edges of it softened, the anger giving him a brief reprieve from the crushing grief.

The quiet stretched on, heavy but no longer hollow. It was filled with something else now—a fierce, unspoken vow.

The two sat together, their shared grief settling into a rare moment of quiet understanding. The tension in the room softened, though it lingered like a faint shadow. Dick glanced up as Jason appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed. His face was drawn into a scowl, but Dick knew better. 

Dick smiled, patting the space next to him in the room. “C’mon,” he offered. 

Jason hesitated, his gaze flickering between them before he finally stepped forward. He sat down with a weighty sigh, his forearms resting on his knees. For a moment, he said nothing, staring at the floor as though the words he wanted to say were buried there.

“I knew him. In the League,” Jason began, his voice low but steady.

Tim’s head shot up, his wide eyes locking onto Jason in shock. But Jason didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, his jaw tightening before he forced himself to continue.

“I…I didn’t know it was him,” Jason said, his voice faltering. “Talia told me I had to fight her best weapon.” He exhaled sharply, his breath trembling with the weight of the admission. “And it was him. He left because of me, I fucking know it.”

Jason turned his head away, his voice breaking on the last word. His hands clenched into fists as he fought the rising tide of guilt.

Dick shook his head, placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder. But Jason shook it off with an inhale of breath. “No, you know that’s not true–”

“ —But isn’t it? We all saw the fucking video. He got up, and– and the way he looked at me? It was full of hurt. And fear. I didn’t need a recording to tell me I screwed up. He thought I didn’t want him around. That I’d rather he wasn’t here.” 

Dick stared at him, his expression a mix of frustration and sorrow. “Jason, you can’t put this all on yourself. Damian’s…” He paused, searching for the right words. “He’s complicated. Stubborn. And yeah, maybe he thought that. But that’s on us too—for not making sure he knew he belonged. For not showing him enough.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “I keep going over it, Dick. In my head, over and over. If I’d just said something— anything —maybe he wouldn’t have—”

“ Stop. ” Dick’s voice was firm, cutting through Jason’s spiral. He grabbed Jason’s shoulder again, this time not letting him shake it off. “Blaming yourself isn’t going to bring him back. What matters now is that we find him. That we bring him home.”

Tim, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up, his voice quiet but resolute. “We don’t know if he was following a command, or seeing something because of that…implant, but it doesn’t matter. When, not if, when we find him, we show him. We prove to him that he’s not alone. That he’s never been alone.” 

Jason let out a slow, shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as he stared down at the floor. “And what if we’re too late?” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Dick’s grip on Jason’s shoulder tightened, his blue eyes burning with determination. “We won’t be,” he said, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Damian’s strong. Stronger than any of us give him credit for. And he’s out there, waiting for us to bring him back – even if he doesn’t know it. So we will.”

Jason nodded, clenching his hands into fists. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, resolve twinkling in the shine of his eyes. “We’re watching ‘Pride and Prejudice’.” He rose suddenly, offering a hand to Dick as he wiped at his face. “We’re not going to mope around. Nope, fuck that. We’re watching a fantastic movie, sleeping, then finding whoever the fuck has Damian.”

Dick smiled softly, grabbing Jason’s hand and hauling Tim up with surprising ease. “We can get some doughnuts. And even, order some pineapple pizza.” Dick offered, watching Tim’s expression. The teenager clutched the journal, his tense shoulders finally releasing.

Tim gave a reluctant smile, shaking his head as he felt the weight of the moment shift, just slightly, into something that felt less like a hole and more like a breath of air in their lungs. "Pineapple pizza?" he asked, his voice hoarse but with a hint of a tease. "You’d order that for me?"

Dick shrugged, unabashed. "Hey, maybe all those months of you attempting to convince me worked. Besides, it's about time we had something nice, right?" He turned to Jason, eyes narrowing with a mischievous glint. "How about we add BBQ Chicken for good measure?"

Jason's lips twitched at the corners, the first hint of something close to a grin since the conversation had turned serious. He glanced between Dick and Tim, then sighed heavily. "Alright, fine," he said with exaggerated resignation. "But only if we get a side of garlic bread too."

"Deal," Dick said without hesitation, already feeling the tension in his shoulders at ease as the playful back-and-forth filled the space between them. They hadn't laughed in what felt like too long. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind them of something they'd almost forgotten: there was still light in the midst of all the darkness.

Jason ran a hand over his face, wiping away the remnants of whatever emotion had threatened to spill over, then looked at Dick, a quiet seriousness settling back in. "We're doing the right thing, right? Not just for us, but for him?"

Dick nodded, the room still heavy with their shared grief but now tempered by the pull of a new, unspoken pact. "We're doing it for him. Every step. And we're bringing him home, no matter what it takes."

The words felt like a promise, the kind that might not be enough to erase all the wrongs but would drive them forward all the same.

Tim tucked the journal under his arm, his eyes soft but resolute. "He’s out there, and we’ll find him. He’s not alone. Not now, not ever."

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, not in mourning, but in a quiet understanding. The room, once cold and still with absence, now felt filled with a presence. It was the kind of moment that didn’t erase what had happened but forged something new from it—a shared fire in the quiet aftermath.

As Dick clapped Jason on the back, nudging him toward the stairs, Tim followed closely behind, the thought of donuts and pineapple pizza comforting, but it was the vow they made together that anchored them.

No matter how long it took, no matter where the path led, they would get Damian back.

And this time, they'd make sure he knew he was loved.

Chapter Text

The Batcave was uncharacteristically quiet, the usual hum of activity replaced by a palpable tension. Bruce stood at the central console, his eyes fixed on the screen where an intercepted transmission was displayed. Tim leaned on the table, his expression dark with disbelief, while Dick paced behind them, his agitation written in every step.

The name Laurel Bitsy hovered on the screen, along with a photograph of the neurologist, her kind eyes and gentle smile at odds with the cold, impersonal details of her file. The family had spent days researching Project Nexus, although most of the people involved most likely had no idea how deep the project went.

“I can’t believe it,” Tim muttered, breaking the silence. “She wasn’t just involved in Nexus—she was practically running it. And yet… it doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t fit the profile of someone who would let the League take over her research.”

“In her eyes, she probably thought she was doing good,” Dick said, his voice tight with suppressed frustration. “Helping patients who had no other options. But Nexus wasn’t about saving lives—it was about turning people into weapons. Damian was proof of that.”

Bruce’s hands clenched the edge of the console as he stared at Bitsy’s photo. “She was the second most important researcher on the project. While Varos worked on the technological aspects, she worked on how it may affect the brain. She was most likely in charge of the updated fear toxin.”

“And Damian was their test subject,” Tim said bitterly, his knuckles white against the table. “Their ‘proof of concept.’”

“She knew,” Dick said sharply, turning to Bruce. “There’s no way she didn’t. You don’t get that deep into something like Nexus without knowing what it’s really for. So why didn’t she walk away? Why didn’t she stop it?”

“She might not have had a choice,” Bruce said. “Or maybe she didn’t want to see it. People tell themselves all kinds of lies when they think they’re doing the right thing.”

“Or when they’re scared,” Tim added, his voice quieter. “The League’s not exactly known for letting people walk away unscathed.”

“The League knows we’re onto them—they’ve begun an all-out war, and it’s only a matter of time before more and more people get caught in the crosshairs,” Bruce growled, his voice low and laced with anger. His eyes reflected the cold blue glow of the screen, scanning the stream of intercepted transmissions, dossiers, and fragmented data. The weight of what they were facing was etched in every line of his face.

“They’re escalating,” Jason said, his pacing growing faster. “First the assassinations, then the political sabotage, now targeting people tied to Nexus . They’re not just cleaning house—they’re sending a message. A fucking bloody one.”

Tim rubbed his temples, leaning heavier on the table as he read the files again. “And Bitsy is right in the middle of it all. It’s not just her research or the intel she has—it’s what she represents. She’s one of the last people who knows the full extent of what Project Nexus did to Damian, to everyone they experimented on.”

“And if the League gets to her first…” Dick trailed off, his fists clenching.

“They will erase her,” Bruce finished grimly. “They won’t take chances with someone who could bring Nexus to light. And if they’re willing to use Damian to do it…” He didn’t finish the thought, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

The silence that followed was heavy, each of them lost in their thoughts. The stakes were higher than they’d been in years—not just because of what the League was doing, but because of who they were using to do it. Damian wasn’t just a weapon in this fight. He was family, and every decision they made carried the risk of losing him forever.

“Let’s move,” Bruce said finally, breaking the silence. His voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Barbara ran her facial recognition software. Bitsy’s in Europe—Paris, specifically. She’s scheduled to present her findings at the European Neurology Convention.” He gestured to the screen, where a timetable of the event was displayed. “Her public-facing project is centered on groundbreaking advancements in neural prosthetics—work that’s helped patients reclaim their lives. But beneath that façade is the data she’s been trying to bury. If the League is going to strike now, it’ll be in…a week. That gives us time to gather intel, get data, and make a game-plan.”

Jason nodded, his usual cocky smirk replaced by a grim determination. Tim stayed quiet, his mind racing with strategies and contingencies, knowing that every second they delayed brought Damian closer to another mission he couldn’t take back.

As they dispersed to prepare, the image of Laurel Bitsy lingered on the screen. Her soft smile and tired eyes seemed to watch them, a ghost of the decisions she had made and the truths she had buried.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?” Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, one eyebrow cocked as he surveyed the chaos on the table.

Tim shook his head, his brow furrowed in determination as he studied the board. His knuckles whitened around the pieces in his hand, clutching them as though they were lifelines.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, his imposing figure softened by the rare, warm smile on his face. The weight of the world, for once, seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. He leaned forward, patting Tim’s tense shoulder with a reassuring hand. “Just admit it—Jason’s taken the rest of your land. You’ve fought valiantly, Tim, but it’s over.”

“Abso-fucking-not. I will not let this–this heathen, take what’s left of my farmland. “ Tim whipped his head to Bruce, eyes flickering towards the timer which was dangerously close to the end. “Give me 5 more minutes. Please.” 

The man chuckled, but nodded, leaning back in his chair as Tim leaned forward, going through whatever items he could trade in hopes of saving his farmland. Jason began to shake Tim’s chair, laughing with big, booming laughs as the teenager’s hand accidentally swiped the table and the rest of his cards.

“Jason, you—!” Tim lunged, words devolving into a frustrated snarl.

Dick fell out of his chair, doubled over in laughter as Tim tried to grapple Jason into submission. “I swear, Dick,” Tim shouted, “if you don’t stop laughing, I’ll—”

“Shove something deep into the recesses of my body?” Jason teased, grinning wildly. “You’re all talk, Timmy.”

The words faded into a blur, muffled by Bruce’s quiet, unmistakable laugh. It wasn’t loud, but his eyes crinkled with genuine delight as he watched his sons’ antics.

Damian sat still, removed from the ruckus but not untouched by it. A small, fleeting smile crossed his lips as he watched the scene play out before him. But his gaze drifted beyond the table, to the light streaming into the room. It flickered strangely, inconsistent with the fixtures in the house. It was warm, too warm, like a soft beacon trying to pierce through his thoughts.

And then he understood.

The realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He wasn’t there. This wasn’t real. The laughter, the teasing, the warmth—it wasn’t his. A hollow ache opened in his chest, expanding into a weight so heavy he could barely breathe. Tears slipped down his cheeks, unbidden, dropping onto his lap in thick, exaggerated thunks.

The others didn’t notice, still absorbed in their antics. But Dick did.

“Hey,” Dick said softly, his hand resting gently on Damian’s shoulder as he climbed up, the laughter on his face dissolving into concern. His calloused fingers tipped Damian’s chin up, concern etched into the lines of his face. “What’s wrong, baby bat?”

Damian shook his head, furiously wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, but the tears wouldn’t stop. His voice came out hoarse, cracked, and trembling. “I… I don’t want this to end. I want to–to stay here.”

Dick’s expression softened. He pulled Damian into a side hug, his warmth a balm against the growing storm. “Oh, Dami. You can stay. For as long as you want. We’ll always be here.”

Damian’s chest tightened, the words striking something raw inside him. He pulled back, shaking his head, his voice steadier now but heavy with despair. “No. No, you won’t.”

The scene around him dimmed, the edges of the room dissolving into mist. The laughter faded into an echo. Dick’s touch disappeared into nothingness, and Damian was alone once more.

The silence in the safehouse was oppressive, pressing down on Damian’s chest like a heavyweight. He hadn’t slept long—he rarely did these days—but his dream’s fragments lingered, sharp and bittersweet.

It was strange, like picking at a scab that offered momentary relief from the constant itch, only to remind him of the wound still raw beneath. In those dreams, he saw their smiles, heard their laughter, and felt the warmth of their presence. And even though he knew it wasn’t real, wasn’t true, he wished to stay there. To linger in that fragile illusion and never wake up.

But reality always had a way of wrenching him back.

Damian sat up, rubbing at his eyes before running a hand through his tangled hair. The makeshift cot creaked beneath him as he shifted, the chill of the room settling into his bones. 

He stood, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his fingers as he moved to the table. Damian leaned over the table, eyes scanning the details of the mission laid out before him. His purpose was clear, sharper than the ache in his chest or the echoes of their voices in his mind.

Kill Dr. Bitsy.

In one fluid motion, Damian grabbed the neatly folded League garb from the edge of the cot, the fabric whispering as it settled over his shoulders. He adjusted it meticulously, ensuring the lightweight material clung to his frame without restricting movement. The mechanical mask followed—a sleek, intimidating piece that molded seamlessly to his face. It sealed with a quiet click , the faint hum of its mechanisms reassuring him of its functionality.

Why cling to the illusion that the flesh beneath his skin was more real than the metal threaded through his bones? What if, all along, Damian’s turmoil had been a product of his delusion—a misplaced belief that he was made of more humanity than a machine?

What if he stopped fighting? If he silenced the war within and surrendered to the steady hum of electronics whispering in his ear? The cold, calculated commands beckoned him, constant and unyielding, like the pull of a riptide. What would it feel like to let them wash over him, to drown in their certainty, and finally relinquish the burden of choice?

He rolled his stiff shoulders, easing the tension built from restless nights and too many hours spent hunched over his plans. His sword lay within reach, and with practiced precision, he slid it into its sheath, feeling the comforting weight against his back. Every movement was deliberate, every detail checked and rechecked in his mind.

The logistics of the mission loomed before him, a tangled web of routes and contingencies that demanded his full attention. Bitsy, a renowned neurologist, would be departing from her safe house on the outskirts of Paris. Her transport—a nondescript vehicle designed to blend into the city’s flow—was scheduled to head toward Munich. She wouldn’t stay in one vehicle for long. The company would shuffle her from car to car at predetermined checkpoints, their efforts to ensure her safety bordering on paranoia. But paranoia wasn’t enough to stop him.

Damian traced his gloved finger over the map pinned to the table, his mind mapping her route with precision. He had memorized the pattern of transfers, the timing between switches, and the weak points in their strategy.

With a sharp exhale, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his dark hair, the fabric casting his face into shadow. The faint chill of the room prickled at his skin, but he welcomed it—it sharpened his focus.

One last breath escaped him, steadying, grounding. The weight of the mission settled fully on his shoulders, and Damian embraced it as he always did. The path was clear. The target was waiting. And failure was not an option.

The mission had been unfolding as expected. Damian's footsteps were silent, his every motion a ghostly blur as he wove through the narrow streets, his mechanical mask masking his humanity as much as his identity. He’d tracked Bitsy to an unassuming alley, where the final transfer was to occur. The vehicle idled, its driver glancing nervously at the shadows. Bitsy stepped out, clutching a briefcase to her chest like a lifeline.

And for a moment, she looked out beyond the alleyway with a sort of fear. Trepidation, like the small scurry of prey before it came out from the underbrush of its leafed cover. ​​The way she froze, the slight tremble in her breath—it stirred something in Damian, a long-buried instinct.

A part of him wanted to lunge forward. Not to strike. Not to hurt. But to shield her. To protect her.

From himself .

The thought was a spark, quickly snuffed out by the cold, calculated focus that now drove him.

Damian dropped down from his hiding place – he had moved the cameras to provide him a small window, a blind spot from any evidence of her immediate demise. Without hesitation, he moved. His blade sang through the air, precise and deadly. The first guard barely had time to register his presence before Damian’s blade cut clean across his throat, the body slumping soundlessly to the ground.

The second guard turned, eyes widening, but Damian was faster. He slammed the man against the wall, his strength unrelenting. The sound of his sword driving into the man’s stomach echoed faintly in the narrow space, the guard’s choked gasp fading into silence.

The driver had only begun to react, fumbling to open the vehicle door, when Damian advanced. His dagger flashed in the dim light, and with inhuman efficiency, he plunged it into the driver’s throat. Blood sprayed across the interior of the vehicle as the man collapsed forward, lifeless.

The alley was still again, save for the sound of Damian’s breathing, steady and controlled. He turned toward his true target, his heart cold and unyielding as he approached.

He turned to her – despite her height dwarfing his slim figure, her eyes widened behind her circular glasses. Her hair was tied back into a braid, and she wore casual clothes. If someone looked from far away, it was like she was going through a small stroll through the streets of Luxembourg. 

For some reason, they wanted to use the cover of darkness to shield her.

As Damian walked forward, he stilled the tremble of his hand clenching the sword. He had done this a million times – it was so natural, the ability to kill, it was like blood flowing through his veins. The ability to kill, to end a life, was ingrained in him. It was instinct now.

This wasn’t his first time, and he knew with grim certainty it wouldn’t be his last.

Days before, he had been commanded on a mission. Yet the details of that assignment were already a haze in his mind, blurred and hollow, unlike many others that came before it. A foggy void where his memories should be, filled instead with nothingness.

Some missions were a blur, Damian waking up in a completely different room, his hands covered in the blood of unknown targets. He knew distantly that he had been sent on a mission, that he had been ordered by Mother. But, why did he forget it all? Regardless, he had completed missions with efficiency – that was why he was still alive.

So why, of all times, did fear grip him now? Why, when he had perfected the art of being unflinching, did he feel the weight of hesitation clawing at his chest?

Damian’s steps slowed for a fraction of a second, his breath catching before he forced himself onward, burying the feeling deep, where it couldn’t touch him. But the question lingered, like an unwelcome whisper in the back of his mind:

Why was he scared?

Then he heard it.

Even through the haze of blood that clung to his clothes like a second skin, through the metallic tang of death that filled the air and her trembling pleas fading into nothing, the voice pierced through it all.

It cut through the chaos like a blade, sharp and familiar in a way that sent a jolt through Damian’s chest. He froze, every muscle locking into place, the weight of his sword suddenly unbearable in his hand. He recognized it instantly, without hesitation.

Damian recognized it more than his own. His voice was shallow – hollow, cracked from weeks of misuse. Yet, Damian knew that exact tone and cadence. It followed him in his nightmares — and dreams.

Tim.

“Hey,” Tim said softly, his voice tentative but familiar, like a ghost lingering on the edges of the present. Damian’s body tensed, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as though the very air had changed. 

For a moment, Damian wondered if he had been poisoned. Maybe it was another test—another experiment designed by Grandfather. Maybe his mind wasn’t right. Or perhaps, just perhaps, this was some twisted simulation designed to make him crack.

But no one could recreate the small mole above Tim’s lip, the curve of his jaw that only a few remembered, the slight jutting out of his right canine when he spoke as if it had always been there. And the scar above his left eyebrow, barely noticeable unless you knew him well enough to search for it.

Damian’s throat tightened. The world around him felt like it was pressing in, the edges of his vision blurring as if reality itself was warping under the weight of his disbelief. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything except the undeniable truth that Tim was standing right in front of him.

Because if he moved, if he acknowledged this—if he even looked at Tim properly—he would shatter. The walls he’d so carefully built would crumble.

“What’re you doing, bud?” Tim walked closer, his hands splayed out in front of his body. Damian’s eyes scanned his outfit, recognizing that he was wearing his uniform. What about Gotham?

But that wasn’t his home anymore, right? So why would it even matter?

Tim’s voice was so soft – like the feeling of quiet, hushed giggles. It was too soft for the harshness of his reality, like the blurred edges of a good dream, where you don’t truly understand what you’re seeing.

Damian’s breath hitched in the silence, and he bit back the involuntary whimper that threatened to escape his throat. The sound felt foreign like it didn’t belong to him—a fracture in the mask of cold indifference he had worked so hard to maintain.

Tim stilled, his eyes widening, the whites of his domino mask almost glowing in the dim light. His hand shook ever so slightly as he reached forward, barely a few steps separating them. His movements were hesitant, as if unsure of what to do, or perhaps afraid of what would happen if he moved too quickly.

A small voice yearned to reach forward and collapse into the teenager’s arms. To feel human for a little bit. 

It felt like hearing something too good to be true – it reminded Damian of the smell of greasy fries after a long night of patrol. Or the clicking of twin pens writing in the library. He probably smelled like, like —

He’s not your home. And he will never be your home, not anymore.

Damian’s grip on his sword tightened, his breath shallow. Without a word, he turned away from Tim, his body moving on instinct, driven by the cold, distant part of himself that had long ago been stripped of anything resembling warmth. His sword swung in a clean, fluid arc, slicing through the air with a deadly precision.

Bitsy’s throat was torn open in an instant.

Her eyes widened in shock, the breath stolen from her lungs as the life drained from her. Her body froze at that moment as if the universe itself had halted to bear witness to her end.

And Damian didn’t care at all.

Her body collapsed with a dull thud, lifeless on the cold ground, and in the same instant, Tim pushed past Damian, his hands flying to the woman’s throat. He gripped it tightly, panic and disbelief painted across his face as Bitsy’s body twitched, gasping for air in desperate, ragged breaths.

It was a chaotic, choking sound – like a fish out of water. 

The manor had fish.

Damian took a step back, his senses muted by the rush of adrenaline, the hollow sensation settling deep in his chest. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from the scene unfolding before him. His ears rang with a deafening roar—the pulse of blood in his veins thrumming like the engine of a motorcycle revving before it surged forward, or the hum of a computer loading a case file, the urgency unmistakable.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the look on Tim’s face as their eyes met, and in that brief exchange, Damian saw everything. Tim’s eyes flicked between him and the dying woman on the ground, a torrent of emotions churning within him. And in that moment, Damian knew. 

He knew who Tim would choose.

With a sharp movement, he threw a smoke pellet to the ground, the thick cloud enveloping them. By the time the smoke cleared, Damian was gone, leaving behind the carnage of the alley and the sound of Bitsy’s choked breathing.

Damian gasped for breath as he clung to the shadows for cover, desperate for something to hide the pain contorting his face. The wind bit into his exposed skin, and his mask tightened around every noise that clawed its way from his tight throat. 

In a flash, Damian was tackled to the ground. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, and his body reacted instinctively, thrashing beneath the weight of his attacker. He fought back with everything he had, slamming his fists into the ground, twisting his body beneath the pressure, and trying to break free. His mind was a blur of frantic, panicked thoughts as his body surged with adrenaline, desperate to escape.

But then, something in the grip shifted. It wasn’t the cold, calculated force of a threat. It was warm, familiar, and desperately trying to hold him still.

Damian froze, his heart stopping when his eyes locked with his attacker’s. 

No.

Damian’s breath hitched as he looked up into Dick’s eyes—those bright, blue eyes that had looked at him with hope.

Dick’s hands were tight around his arms, trying to hold him down, but not in anger. There was no fury in his grip, no hardened resolve. There was only desperation, and sorrow.

"Damn it, Dami..." Dick choked out, his voice breaking. He looked down at him, his hands shaking as they struggled to keep hold. His breath was ragged, and Damian could feel the heat of his tears as they began to fall, tracing the lines of his face. "I—I need you to stop. Please."

Damian’s chest felt like it was closing in. His entire body tensed, his instincts screaming to push him away, to fight back, to not let anyone get close. But it was like his limbs were frozen, caught in the storm of conflicting emotions crashing through him. The deep, unyielding pull of guilt and the agony of loss that had been buried for so long—Dick was here. Dick was here , and he had found him again.

He struggled against his grip, hand craning towards the dagger resting on his hip. Dick would never expect it – it would be easy to escape, to slice upwards and jab the golden dagger into the man’s side. Damian had done it to thousands of targets, whose faces betrayed more fear, more sadness, more hatred than Dick’s face.

But, Damian couldn’t.

He was supposed to protect them.

Weak.

"Let me go," Damian whispered hoarsely, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth. His voice cracked – split down in the middle like you took an axe to it and carved out the remnants of humanity. 

A part of Damian wanted to break, wanted to let the tears he had locked away for so long spill out, wanted to embrace the only family he had left. But another part of him—the part that had been molded by the darkness, the part that had been built on cold steel and broken promises—fought against it.

Dick’s grip tightened, his tears falling freely now. "Damian… please…I can’t–I can’t watch them hurt you. Not anymore. Please, just…just come home."

Damian shook his head violently, ignoring the nausea rising in his throat, the pressure in his head, the force that fought against the curve of his ribs. 

He wasn’t home. He was a liar, a liar, a liar. 

And with that, he summoned all the force he could muster, throwing Dick off with a brutal twist of his body, breaking free from the hold. Distantly, he heard the sickening crunch of his wrist snapping, like the brittle crack of a twig beneath the weight of the collision. Pain flared up, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. There was no time for pain.

He didn’t give Dick a second glance as he pushed himself to his feet, his heart pounding in his ears.

Damian knew that the man was following him – chasing close behind, but Damian had a singular advantage.

He didn’t have much to live for, anymore.

In one swift motion, Damian dove downward, shattering the glass ceiling of a nearby warehouse with a controlled dive. The jagged shards sliced into his skin, but it was a pain that barely registered in the chaos of his mind. He hit the ground hard, feeling the breath knocked from him, his body screaming in protest as glass embedded into his flesh. He groaned, pushing through the agony.

Above, he heard Dick’s voice, desperate and familiar, calling his name. Damian didn’t wait to see what the older man would do, didn’t let himself think about the fear in Dick’s voice. He couldn’t. Not now. He had already made his choice.

Pulling himself up from the wreckage of the fallen glass, Damian moved quickly, pulling himself deeper into the warehouse’s shadows. He had to get away. It was the only way.

As he disappeared into the twisted labyrinth of steel and abandoned machinery, the distant sound of Dick’s footsteps faltered and then grew silent. When Dick finally arrived at the bloodied spot where Damian had last been seen, there was nothing but the faint scent of blood in the air.

When Damian stumbled back into the dusty safehouse, the air felt suffocating, dense with everything he was trying to escape. He clawed at his uniform, tearing the fabric from his body as if it were the source of his torment. Each ragged breath hitched in his throat, his chest heaving as sobs erupted uncontrollably.

Go back to them.

Kill them.

They love you.

How could they love you?

The broken wrist pinned against his stomach throbbed mercilessly, each movement sending fresh spikes of pain radiating up his arm. His ribs ached with every breath, a dull, grinding agony that threatened to pull him under.

He dropped to his knees, hands clutching at his head as though he could physically quiet the noise. His face pressed into the rough mesh of the cot, desperate for some sense of grounding, but it offered no relief.

He couldn’t bear the thought of their faces—etched with worry, sorrow, maybe even pity. Heavy with despair, the idea of their eyes tore at him in a way no blade ever had. Distantly, Damian’s eyes lingered on his sword. He had failed his mission – Damian had been unable to eliminate a target for his personal reasons.

Whatever he did now, the League would have crawled on his hands and knees for forgiveness. The shine of the blade reflected the moonlight. 

In the flurry of his thoughts, like the rocky waves of an ocean breeze, Damian remembered a moment, that stuck out. It simultaneously hurt to think about – yet, it provided Damian with an ease he never truly understood. They had hurt him, they had hated him, they were liars. And yet…

Damian’s hands trailed over the scars that crossed over his arms and body. His body felt like the uneven stitching on the edges of something fraying, barely holding together. He rested his back against Dick’s shoulder – he didn’t know when he had stopped expecting the man to attack him, but his body craved the soft contact.

Before he came to the manor, Damian didn’t know such a thing existed. That something could feel like a pool of sunlight, a bed of warm cotton. The man never made a large commotion about it – never once teased him, or stiffened – not even an intake of breath could give away that something was astray.

That was what Damian liked about him the most – his composure. There was nothing under the surface, no emotion that needed to be detected, no hidden meaning that needed to be surmised. He simply…was.

“I…apologize for my performance last patrol.” Damian had said, his voice wavering slightly. He didn’t notice it then – but mistakes were encouraged. Damian hadn’t realized that he never flinched when his voice trembled.

Dick shook his head, head bent towards his crochet project, giving the impression of indifference – though his eyes betrayed his concern, eyes crinkled on the sides like folded paper. “Nothing to apologize for,” he said softly, the sound of crochet needles clunking together filling the empty air.

And that was that. Damian always held his breath whenever he interacted with the team – he didn’t know what he was expecting. Perhaps he was expecting that they would curl their lips in disgust at his face, or to wretch his face and slam it into the wall. Perhaps he was simply waiting for them to reveal that it was all a test – a lie.

But, they never did. Not yet, anyway.

Distantly, Damian saw a figure silhouetted by the pale light streaming through the window, the glow of the moon casting it in silver. His breath hitched as his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His fingers closed around it, trembling, even as his rational mind tried to claw its way through the fog of fear. The blade caught the light, sharp and deadly, but Damian’s grip faltered.

Tim stood in the doorway, small and hesitant, his face on the verge of crumbling into pieces. His eyes shone with something Damian couldn’t bear to name, something fragile and raw that pressed against the walls of his chest like a scream trying to escape.

Bitsy’s throat.

Tim was going to kill him.

Damian hiccupped, his breaths jagged as he wiped at his face with the back of his hand, smearing tears across his skin. His other hand clung to the sword as though it were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Oh god, Dami—” Tim’s voice cracked as he stepped forward, and Damian recoiled, raising his arms instinctively to shield his face. The sword fell from his grip, clattering to the ground with a hollow ring that echoed in the room.

“Don’t,” Damian hissed through gritted teeth, his voice splintering like glass under pressure. He hated himself for the way he flinched, for the way his body betrayed his mind, curling in on itself like a wounded animal. He should have fought back, grabbed his sword, and lunged towards his attacker. 

But instead, there were hands—warm, steady hands that wrapped around his chest and pulled him close.

And Damian nearly began to sob at the warmth spreading through his chest—it pushed back against the icy grip that clung to him, a cold so persistent it felt like it had settled in his bones, like it had become a part of him. This warmth was foreign and overwhelming, and it broke something fragile inside him. It was just like how it felt in his dreams, fleeting and unreal, slipping through his fingers the moment he woke.

“Are you hurt? Have they hurt you?” Tim pulled back, hand curled around Damian’s cheek as he inspected Damian’s face. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as though afraid to shatter the fragile moment between them. His eyes scanned Damian’s face with frantic urgency, skipping over bruises and blood to focus on his breathing, the shallow rise and fall beneath the League uniform.

Damian opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His throat felt dry, choked with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Confusion clawed at his mind, leaving him paralyzed.

“You…” Damian trailed off, when Tim’s hand caressed a cut on his cheek, smearing the blood across his rounded face. 

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered, his voice rising in panic. His hand withdrew suddenly, hovering as though unsure where to go. “You are hurt, aren’t you? Your—your wrist. Am I hurting you? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tim leaned back, his movements jerky with hesitation, and the warmth left with him. Damian’s chest tightened as the absence sank in, a hollow ache replacing the fleeting comfort. Without thinking, his body lurched forward, his good hand reaching out to grasp Tim’s shirt, to pull him back, to keep him close.

Weak. Kill him.

But his mind drifted back to his directive—it had never been rewritten, never dismantled. It loomed in his thoughts, an unyielding anchor to his sorrows and the very root of his torment. He was supposed to protect them. That was the purpose etched into his being. But how could he? How could he safeguard them when their feelings toward him twisted in every direction? Hated him. Loved him. Used him. Cared for him. How could he reconcile it all? How could he protect them… when he couldn’t even protect himself?

Damian’s breath hitched, his ribs screaming in protest as he tried to steady himself. He could feel the tears welling up again, hot and stinging, blurring his vision. He wanted to scream, to push Tim away, to demand that he stop pretending. But all he could do was sit there, shaking, as Tim’s hands stayed anchored on him, grounding him in the present.

“What…what are you doing here?” The mask tightened around his face, the pressure a constant reminder of the rules drilled into him. He wasn’t supposed to speak on a mission. Silence was the League’s creed—words could betray, words could kill. And yet, here he was, breaking protocol with a question that carried too much weight, too much of himself.

Tim flinched at the sound, his shoulders stiffening as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His face, still bathed in the pale glow of the moonlight, was a mess of emotions—relief, worry, guilt—all tangled up in the soft lines of his expression. “I’m here – we’re here for you. God, I–I was so worried for you. But, you’re okay.” Tim laughed a little, hollow and broken, still carrying the weight of the atmosphere between them. “You’re –” Alive.

Damian leaned back, shaking his head. He was lying. Drake was here to get information, to capture him. To take the weapon for himself. Damian glanced at the door, but Tim softly pulled his uninjured wrist back at him, tears flowing from his eyes.

“Don’t leave. They’re…they’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry if you thought – if you felt like you weren’t loved. I love you, so much. I–I love your drawings and the little hum you don’t realize you do when you’re reading and how you always pause to look at the squirrels and birds and ducks on the family walks. I love you so goddamn much. You’re my–” Tim’s voice cracked, but he smiled. Damian had never seen him look so sad. “– My little brother. Come home.”

Damian shook his head, pulling away once again. The cold pulled at his heart – but he pushed aside the yearning, the small voice that screamed for his gentle touch. Kill him. Kill him . Kill him.  

A voice—deep, commanding, and cold as the League’s endless halls—echoed in his head. It wasn’t real, not in the physical sense, but it didn’t need to be. The words were engraved deep in his psyche, sharp and unyielding.

Love is not what you were made for.

You were not made for love.

You were made for destruction.

Damian bit his lip, and Tim reached forward, eyebrows furrowed at the sudden change in Damian. His chest felt like it was being crushed, the weight inside him pressing harder with every second Tim stayed near. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to feel anymore—feel this pressure building in his chest, this ache in his bones like it was genetic.

The ache wasn’t just emotional; it felt physical like something clawing its way out of him. Like his very being was at war with itself. His lips trembled, but his eyes darted to Tim’s hand, still hovering near him, and something inside him twisted painfully.

He didn’t want to feel at all.

So, as Tim wrapped his arms around Damian, whispering soft nothings that went past deaf ears, Damian whispered something to himself. “Seventeen. Honor. Cold. Benign. Nine. Whistle. Them.”

Damian's whispered codewords hung in the air, almost inaudible against Tim's frantic reassurances. But within him, something shifted. The haze of emotion—the tangled, unbearable knot of love, fear, and anger—fell away, replaced by an icy clarity that turned his thoughts razor-sharp.

“How bad is it?” The boy asked, his voice a gentle whisper in the night of the compound. It was the only time that Damian felt something close to safety – the idea that he could hide within the shadows of the cell, even if his blood-soaked his training uniform.

He had succeeded in his mission, and it would only be time until he got another command. The in-betweens of his commands were strange – timeless in a sense like Damian only started to exist when someone gave him purpose.

Yet, strangely, Damian didn’t feel that awkward jump when he spoke to the boy. It was as if…as if the boy was his purpose.

“...I’m alive,” Damian whispered back, eyes flickering towards the steel door as if guards would come in and haul him to his feet for punishment. Every whisper, every modicum of speech was dangerous. They both risked their lives – their bodies, their souls. But the comfort — no, the warmth it brought them both, was worth it.

The boy grunted a soft, animalistic noise. It was filled with a slight edge, like the growl of a caged dog, tired of pacing the same concrete walls over and over. Their conversations only lasted a few words – if that. Their interactions were few and far between, only when they somehow made it to parallel cells. Damian and the boy were often switched around, to disorient, to make them understand that there was no home in this place.

Home – what a strange phrase. It described no physical objects or scent. No type of people, or environment. There was a definition – but to Damian, it didn’t fit him. Sure, he had lived in the concrete cells for as long as he could remember; he memorized every speckle of dark grey concrete, every morsel of a fingernail scratch of someone’s last stay. 

But home, the taste of the word, felt sour on his tongue. It was as if, Damian didn’t want to spoil the word by saying it out loud in a place like this. He would never say these things out loud, and even thinking about it felt like a sin. Like he was breaking a command. He was given food, and a roof over his head. 

He had been told, time and time again, that he was born broken, and that he was lucky to be alive in the first place. 

Damian didn’t know if that was the truth.

He wanted to believe in the League – in their harshness, because without a purpose, what was he alive for? To simply exist, without a reason to? That was something for civilians, for his targets. It was not something that fit the unnamed, the unknown. The shadowed figures were seen on the edges of cameras and in the blurred peripheral vision of bodyguards. 

It was for those not born monstrous.

“The stars are bright tonight,” the boy whispered, breaking Damian free from his thoughts. He grunted, pushing his body up, his hand slipping slightly on the pool of blood gathered under his position. Damian craned his head towards the small slit at the top of the cell, barely enough to fit a finger through – but he saw it.

Shining speckles dotted the sea of night, a vast expanse that Damian only sometimes tasted. He would have to earn his freedom. If Damian could wander the earth with more than a simple mission – a mission that lasted longer than a couple of days, Damian would give anything.

He didn’t mean everything though.

Chapter Text

When Damian’s hand shot to the dagger at his hip and nearly drove it into the side of Tim’s head, a cold realization gripped Tim’s heart. Something was deeply, terribly wrong with his little brother.

He leaped back, pushing Damian away with a force that seemed to clench his heart in a fist. Damian stumbled, looking up – that melancholic look in his eyes, the sadness that seemed to ooze out of every pore of his body was replaced with animalistic rage.

No, it wasn’t rage. It wasn’t pain. It was cold, clinical apathy. The kind of detachment that came from being forged into a weapon. Damian moved like a predator that had been honed to perfection, not out of malice but out of pure, mechanical instinct. The same way a starving wolf would hunt, not out of cruelty but necessity. The efficiency in his every motion was almost inhuman.

“Damian! I—” Tim started, his voice trembling. But before he could finish, Damian lunged, his movements so precise and fast that Tim barely dodged in time. The blade grazed the edge of his cape as Tim spun away, his heart hammering in his chest.

Damian acted like he was uninjured, his injured wrist being used as much as his other one – it twisted Tim’s heart. 

On any given day, Tim would have a fighting chance against Damian. Sure, the kid was good – but Tim was trained by the Batman, by Lady Shiva herself.

Tim did everything in his power to deflect Damian’s attacks, each strike more brutal than the last. He held back, unwilling to hurt him, desperate to believe he could still reach him. But Damian? Damian wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t defending. He was going for the kill with a precision that only the League of Assassins could teach.

Tim ducked as the dagger came within inches of his neck, his arm lashing out to sweep Damian’s legs. For a fleeting second, it worked. Damian stumbled, crashing against the wall. But then he stopped, standing there like a statue. His head tilted like a hawk might study a mouse before striking.

Tim felt like he had been doused in ice-cold water. “Damian, what you’re seeing isn’t real, okay? I–I know you’re scared, but –” Tim ducked, the dagger embedding itself deep within the safehouse walls.

The safehouse itself was an old, abandoned building. It seemed to crumble with every step, and when Tim had entered, he had feared he would be stumbling upon a dead body rather than his brother. But Damian had stood there, clutching at himself like he could crumble into dust at any moment. And as Tim reached forward, his hands shaking with the hope that Damian would fly into his arms – Damian had flinched.

The flinch had been instinctive, a knee-jerk reaction that made Tim’s chest ache. He had seen it before—on kids pulled from war zones, on victims who had been conditioned to expect pain before comfort. And Damian… Damian had flinched from him.  

It was a violent one, covering his bloodied and bruised face with his forearms. But Tim flew forward like it was a pull of gravity – a yank of his very soul like his atoms yanked by a singular thread. When Tim’s arms had wrapped around the boy’s, he had felt so very small. His frame – light and fragile, like the crumble of an autumn leaf on a fall day. And he trembled in Tim’s arms, shoulders still tense like he was waiting for something.

Tim could feel the anger burning under his skin. Not at Damian, never at him. But at the people who had done this—who had broken him so thoroughly that even now, even after everything, his first instinct was to defend rather than accept warmth.

But when Tim pulled back, rubbing Damian’s cheek, he leaned into the touch. Tim felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. Had he ever been held before the manor? Had anyone ever taught him that touch didn’t have to mean pain? That hands could be used for something other than commands, then discipline?

But it didn’t matter now.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Damian lunged forward, and Tim was a second too late. The dagger sliced through his side like a hot knife through butter, tearing through fabric and flesh with sickening ease. A sharp, searing pain bloomed in his ribs, and Tim stumbled back, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. He pressed a hand to his side, feeling warm blood seep through his fingers, but there was no time to assess the damage.

He barely dodged the next attack, twisting just in time to avoid another slash aimed straight at his throat. His comms had gone dead the moment he entered the warehouse—radio silence in every direction. No backup. No Jason or Dick or Bruce. Just him and Damian, locked in a fight that shouldn’t be happening.

Tim had faced fear before. He had trained under Batman, survived the worst Gotham had to offer, and fought monsters both real and imagined. He had been broken, stitched back together, and thrown into hell more times than he could count. But the way Damian looked at him now—vacant, unfeeling, like he was nothing more than a target—sent ice curling down his spine.

Fear toxin, Tim told himself, dodging another strike. This isn’t him. It can’t be.

Then, Damian moved—faster than Tim could react. He leaped forward, tackling Tim to the ground with bone-crushing force. The impact knocked the air from Tim’s lungs, his head slamming against the concrete floor hard enough to send stars bursting across his vision. Damian was on top of him in an instant, straddling his chest, dagger raised high.

Tim flinched, instincts screaming at him to throw Damian off, to roll out of the way, to fight —but then, suddenly, Damian hesitated.

The blade hovered above Tim’s throat, trembling.

Tim blinked, his breath unsteady. “It’s—It’s me, Dami. Tim. Your brother.” His voice cracked, splitting down the middle, raw with something aching and desperate—something he couldn’t even begin to name. He had been hurt when Damian ran. When he disappeared without a word.

Even more so when Dick told him what had happened—how Damian had jumped from that building like he didn’t care if he hit the ground.

But Tim knew. He knew.

His little brother wasn’t just running. He was drowning.

For a split second, the air between them shifted. Damian’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his grip on the dagger loosening. He tilted his head, like he was seeing Tim— really seeing him—for the first time. 

Then, in one motion, jabbed Tim with something from his utility belt –  A sharp sting bloomed through his body.

Tim yelped, throwing Damian off, but the effects were already in place. His arms were full of lead, and he stumbled, clutching the wall. “Wh–What did you…do…?” Tim slurred out, falling to his knees as his vision swam before him.

And then the world turned black.

The pain was the first thing Tim registered when he woke. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from his side, spreading in slow pulses through his ribs and up his spine. His head pounded, his limbs still sluggish, weighed down by whatever Damian had drugged him with. His fingers twitched against the cold stone.

Where—?

His eyes blinked open to darkness. Not complete, but enough that the corners of the room were swallowed in shadow. The dim glow of a single flickering lightbulb buzzed from above, casting weak illumination over his surroundings. A cell. 

Concrete walls, a heavy steel door that looked anything but inviting – the walls smeared with blood and dirt, fingernail scratches marking days of past residents. On the largest smudged charcoal covers the entire wall. The air was damp and thick with the scent of mildew and old blood. 

The cot was low to the ground, wooden, and a small cotton mattress covered it – a small plate of food sat in front of the door. It was small bits of chicken and rice, overcooked and the meat full of more bones than anything else. Rust covered the door, fingernail scratches marking the edges of the door, barely making the edges of the door chip and crack underneath the pressure. 

Tim wore nothing but the basics underneath his uniform – a compression shirt and leggings. Tim groaned as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, vision swimming. He barely managed to suppress a hiss when fire licked up his side, a sharp reminder of the knife wound. His hand instinctively moved to press against the injury, fingers meeting stiff, hastily tied fabric. It took a moment for his mind to catch up with what he was feeling.

His gloves had been taken. His belt was gone. But whoever had patched him up hadn’t used just any scrap of cloth.

It was fabric from Damian’s uniform.

Tim nearly sobbed from relief – Damian was here. With him – most likely the League’s base, but why was Tim spared? And why had Damian…drugged him?

Fear toxin could do many things – could warp what someone saw, could change what they heard, what they did. But Tim had never heard of it completely…turning someone numb. No, this was something entirely different – and knowing the League, it had absolutely everything to do with the chip inside his brain.

But Tim pushed his thoughts to the side, scooting closer to the food as his thoughts scrambled to think of answers. He could still feel the weight of the fight, the way Damian had moved with mechanical precision, his strikes devoid of emotion. The cold efficiency of a soldier, a weapon being used exactly as it was designed to be. Tim had seen it before, but this had been different.

Damian had hesitated.

Not long, not much, but enough.

Enough to spare him. Enough to patch him up. Enough to leave behind a piece of himself.

Tim swallowed, his fingers pressing the cloth tighter against his wound as he could hold onto something more than just fabric. His head was still foggy, but his thoughts were starting to clear, forming connections, pulling pieces together.

Damian had taken him alive.

Which meant there was still time.

Tim took a slow, steadying breath and forced himself upright, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest. His side ached, his head spun, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t dead yet.

He was all alone in a den of snakes – he couldn’t trust anything he saw, heard, or felt. Every corner of this place stunk of misery and decay – broken dreams and lost people. Everything was meant to hurt, to harm, to break down the mind into small pieces in which no one was supposed to emerge. But, they underestimated Tim.

Because as long as he was still breathing, he was going to get both of them out of this.

“What the fuck do you mean he ‘disappeared’?” Jason asked, a snarl as he scanned the abandoned voice. He shook with barely concealed violence, like the tensing of muscles before an action. 

Bruce shook his head, shoulders tense with every emotion as he took in the burnt files and maps, still crumbling to ash on the rotted wooden floors. The air was tight like the pull of a bowstring – the static of energy was palpable, and Dick kneeled on the floor, knuckles tight as his face was pulled into a grimace.

“They took them both. They took them fucking both ,” Jason craned his head to look at Dick, whose face was thunderous. The man was known for his jokes and quips–agility and movement. Trying to capture him was like trying to battle with water itself. Sure, Jason might have been fire, roaring, crackling flames that licked skin to burns and incinerated all that came in its path. 

But Dick was the crashing of waves, the swirl of riptide. The final feeling before you sunk below its depths and never came up again.

Dick was the first Robin. And when he was pissed, he got fucking pissed.

“When I grabbed him, he was scared. I mean, really fucking scared. And he was skinny – I don’t even know what they feed him – if they feed him at all. And, I could tell he was injured.” Dick said under his breath, a growl in his throat. 

Jason’s breath hitched.

His gaze flicked back to Bruce, whose shoulders were so rigid it looked like he was made of stone. “Say something. Anything.” His voice was unsteady, tinged with something dangerously close to pleading. “Tell me we’re gonna find them. Now. ”

When Damian woke, the first thing he noticed was that he was not in his cell. The second was the blinding white light that flooded the room, a stark contrast to the suffocating darkness he had grown accustomed to. He let out a low groan, clutching his ribs as he forced himself upright. His entire body ached—a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from his bones like an infection.

The walls around him were cold, unfeeling slabs of concrete, but it was the machinery that surrounded him that truly set his nerves on edge. Cords and wires snaked across the floor, trailing into the walls and looping around metallic tables like the intestines of a gutted machine.

The air carried the sharp scent of antiseptic and burnt metal, mingling with something else—something familiar . It stirred at the edges of his mind, a sensation he couldn’t place, like a half-remembered nightmare that refused to take shape.

Then, without warning, pain shot through his skull like a live wire, jolting him forward with a gasp. He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as fragmented images flooded his consciousness—flashes of his mission, his blade slicing through the air, bodies dropping at his feet. But the details blurred at the edges, slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers.

Then he saw them.

Dick—his face contorted in rage – no, in desperation, clinging to every syllable of his voice as he begged Damian to stop. 

Tim—his expression unreadable, but his eyes, sharp and searching, cut through him like a blade.

And then he remembered the way Dick had tackled him to the ground, the way his grip had tightened around his arm as if holding on for dear life. He had shaken his head, eyes shining with something Damian couldn't name—something that made his stomach twist.

Pain. Sadness. Disappointment. Anger. Betrayal.

How could they love him now?

Before he could spiral further, the door hissed open, and Damian immediately forced his body to attention, shoving the pain down. He sat up straighter, forcing his breath to steady as his mother entered the room. She moved like she always did—graceful, deliberate, her expression unreadable.

"My son," Talia said, her voice smooth and composed. She stepped forward, hands folded behind her back, eyes watching him with something unreadable. " You captured Robin. You completed your directive."

He barely had time to process the thought before her tone shifted, sharper now—like the edge of a blade pressed against his throat.

"But you hesitated." The accusation struck like a blow.

The words sent a ripple of unease through his mind, but when he tried to recall the moment she had given him that order, his memories fractured. Something was missing. A gap in his mind where there should have been certainty.

Why couldn’t he remember?

"You let your weakness interfere. You nearly got captured because of it. Your attachments to them still fester within you, clouding your judgment.” She stepped closer, tilting her head as she regarded him, eyes glinting with something cold.

"They are poisoning you, Damian. Their memory lingers, weakening your resolve. You must understand—" her fingers traced lightly along his temple, barely a ghost of a touch, but it sent a shiver down his spine, "—love is nothing more than a shackle. And I will free you from it."

Damian forced himself to keep his face neutral, but inside, something lurched . He felt a hitch in his throat, but forced it down – he kept his face neutral, but his stomach twisted with fear.

Then, she gestured for him to follow, and he stumbled after her, his head reeling with a low thrum of pain. It was like something pressed against the edges of his mind. The laboratory seemed to thrum with energy – and the faint tingle in the back of his neck made his hair stand on its ends. 

Talia arrived at a device, a small chair in the center of what seemed to be a nest of wires and cables, thrumming circuit cords and technology. The presence in his brain made his stomach turn with nausea.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair. Damian hesitated, but sat down, feeling sweat build on his arms as his arms trembled as they settled into place on the chair. “They will torment you no longer, my dear. I thought, perhaps, you would be able to resist their…temptations. But I was clearly wrong.”

A shiver of dread ran through him as she barked an order to a nearby technician, whose face betrayed nothing but hesitation and trepidation. Wires slithered down from its base, tangling into the chair’s frame like veins pulsing with artificial life. The moment the device settled onto his temples, a sharp, icy sensation jolted down his spine, and Damian’s breathing hitched.

He had been trained to resist pain. He had been conditioned to withstand suffering. But this—this was something else.

His instincts screamed at him to move . To run .

His feet twitched, muscles coiling. He could still get up. Still, shove past the guards and bolt through the maze of corridors, break out into the open air, and leave all of this behind—leave the blood, the chains, the ghosts clawing at his throat. He could still—

Father.

The thought struck like a dagger to his chest. He wanted to see his father. He wanted to hear his voice, to feel his steady presence, to know that someone saw him.

He wanted—

The moment he tried to rise, agony exploded inside his skull. It was not like a cut or a broken bone, not like the bruises that painted his ribs in deep shades of purple and black. This was fire , searing through his brain like a bullet, detonating behind his eyes, and ripping through every nerve in his body.

A scream tore from his throat before he could stop it, the sound raw and broken, swallowed by the hum of the machine. His vision blurred, white-hot pain splintering through his mind like shattering glass – the pain in his head, his spine soared, and he smelt the distinct smell of Crane’s toxin as the room warped before him.

Panic flared through him as he struggled, his muscles tensing, but it was too late. His vision swam, his thoughts unraveling as if someone had sunk their hands into his mind and started pulling, unspooling his memories thread by thread.

Flashes of faces flickered before his eyes.

A man with tired eyes and calloused hands resting heavily on his shoulders.

A bright laugh, a warm ruffle of his hair.

A boy with sharp eyes and a knowing smirk, nudging him with an elbow.

Then—pain.

The faces warped, twisted.

The hands that once held him steady now pushed him down. The laughter turned to jeers, sneers of mockery. The boy with sharp eyes loomed over him, a blade in his hand, striking down again and again and again—

Damian gasped, choking on his breath as the images shifted and twisted, reality-warping at the edges.

They never loved you, the toxin whispered in the recesses of his mind.

They abandoned you.

They hated you.

His chest heaved as pain shot through his skull, a burning, searing sensation that left him trembling against the restraints. The memories continued to change, twisting into something cruel, something that didn't belong to him.

He saw Grayson strike him across the face, saw Drake standing over him with contempt in his eyes, and saw Todd laughing as he turned his back on him.

He saw Bruce walking away.

He wished for Dick, for Jason, for Tim—

As the machine powered down, the agonizing pressure in Damian’s skull receded, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming as he blinked through the static haze clouding his mind. The taste of copper filled his mouth, thick and metallic. A sharp cough wracked his chest, and suddenly he was choking—his body rejecting the pain, the violation, the foreignness of whatever had just been done to him.

Damian gasped, his body convulsing as the machine hissed one last time. The straps released, and he slumped forward, dizzy, his vision swimming with distorted images of a life he no longer recognized.

Doubling over, Damian barely managed to twist to the side before bile surged up his throat. His knees scraped against the cold floor as he retched, the acidic burn tearing through his already raw throat. 

He barely heard his mother’s voice, a distant murmur of approval, of reassurance , as if she hadn’t just shattered something fundamental inside of him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, his body shivering with the aftershocks of agony. The room spun around him, shadows flickering at the edges of his vision like ghosts just out of reach. Something inside him—something important —felt absent, like a thread severed too cleanly to leave behind frayed ends.

"Shh," she murmured, stroking his sweat-soaked hair. "It is done."

Damian shuddered against her touch, his breaths shallow, his mind a mess of fractured thoughts and false memories.

Talia smiled.

"Now, my son," she whispered, pressing a hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward her. "Tell me… who do you serve?"

Damian's lips parted.

For a moment, something inside him screamed—something small, something desperate, something slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

Then, like a blade cutting through the haze, his voice came steady, unwavering.

"You, Mother."

Tim had never been a social person – not in the aspects that Dick was. He had grown up in social spheres, memorized what things to say in Galas or parties, memorized the right words to say at galas and parties, but it had always been an act. A performance.  But, he preferred the quiet atmosphere of the manor. Where he could wander the halls lost in a book, playing a video game, quietly writing a program, or editing a photo.

He had spent hours training alone, locked in his mind, sharpening his skills. Solitude was something he could manage. But there was only so much time before he would break. 

Now, unbound and untied, he flexed his stiff fingers, testing the freedom he had been granted. There were only two reasons for this—either they believed he was too weak to attempt escape, or there was simply no way out.

Tim swallowed hard, forcing down the gnawing dread. He preferred the first option.

The cell was small—cramped and suffocating, with damp stone walls that made everything smell like mildew and rust. He was too weak to fight, too exhausted to even attempt escape. The stab wound in his side had festered in the filth, a slow-burning agony that throbbed with every breath. His ribs ached from the last fight, and his wrists were raw from where they had once been bound too tightly when the guards entered to give him food and sneered when he called out that they had left his restraints on.

The only sense of time was the small slit in the top of the cell for sunlight, but it was as if they had purposely placed it where time only came in small, minuscule sections.

There seemed to be no noise.

No footsteps and the Guards always seemed to emerge right when Tim was on the precipice of falling asleep.

At first, he tried to stay awake, tried to keep his mind sharp. He recited old case notes, battle strategies, mathematical equations—anything to keep himself grounded. 

But as time stretched, the fever set in, and his thoughts became sluggish, disjointed. He drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to tell the difference between dreams and reality. The cell walls shifted, warped, and became something else entirely. He saw the Batcave, the manor, and the rooftops of Gotham. He saw Bruce standing over him, but his face was blurred, unreadable. He saw Jason, glaring, shaking his head in disappointment. He saw Dick turning away.

Then he saw Damian.

At first, it was the Damian he knew—small, sharp, unyielding but full of something , someone Tim could still recognize. But then his face twisted, his expression blank, cold, unfeeling .

"You abandoned me."

"You let them take me."

"You lost."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against his drawn-up knees. Not real, not real, not real.

The fever worsened. He was burning alive and freezing at the same time. He was drowning in his skin. He didn’t know how much time had passed before the door finally creaked open. Light flooded in, blinding him. He flinched, curling in on himself, breathing shallow. Boots echoed against the stone, and rough hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him to his feet. His legs buckled, but they didn’t give him the luxury of falling.

“The Demon’s Tail is waiting,” one of the guards sneered.

Tim barely had time to react before two guards grabbed him by the arms, yanking him forward with the kind of force that sent a fresh wave of pain tearing through his wounded side. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let them hear the weakness in his voice. His head was still foggy, body sluggish from infection or sickness – he had tried his best to keep the wound clean, but the cell itself stank of decay.

Of Death.

He had no idea where he was or what they wanted, and wasting energy now wouldn’t help.

The halls they dragged him through were dim, the stone beneath his boots uneven, ancient. Tim took in what details he could, tracking every turn, and counting steps. But before he could map out a potential escape route, the doors before him groaned open.

And he was shoved forward into the light.

The arena was massive. Stone walls loomed around him, flickering torches casting long, sharp shadows. The floor beneath him was smooth, dust-covered. This wasn’t just a prison. It was a stage.

In front of him stood Damian, wielding a shining sword that seemed to glint in the sharp light – at the sight of his brother, Tim nearly sobbed with relief as he was shoved forward, his trembling feet desperately trying to find the surface on the sandy pit.

But, he seemed completely different. 

Not the same type of apathy that Tim saw earlier – not the coldness of a machine, or the curl of a predator like Tim had seen in him before. No, this was completely different. It was a type of resignation, the sigh before an action, like the pacing of a predator forced to repeat the same tasks over and over and over again. 

Tim gulped, suddenly feeling very, very small. Tim turned to the stage standing above him, where a guard threw him a sword, just as sharp as Damian’s.

And Tim felt a pang of fear. “Fight,” a voice called out, slippery like a snake, sharp as shattered glass. Tim had never seen Talia before and had never heard her voice outside of Damian’s small descriptions. But, Tim recognized the malice in her voice, the control over every ounce of tone and cadence within her voice. “Don’t think about resisting. Begin.”

Tim was barely able to turn to Damian before he lunged forward with a speed Tim wasn’t even expecting – gone was the slight hesitation in training sessions, or the brutality when Damian was under the influence of his electronics. No, this was just…obedience. 

Clear and cut. This was something colder. Devoid of the fire that made Damian Damian.

Tim barely had time to process the command before Damian moved. There was no hesitation, no pause for thought—just action. A predator responding to the call of instinct. 

Damian was upon him, their blades clashing with a screech of metal that sent vibrations straight down to his bones. The force of the impact nearly sent him sprawling, his feet slipping against the dust-covered stone as he struggled to keep his balance.

Across from him, Damian adjusted his stance. His grip was perfect, his movements effortless. But what unsettled Tim the most was his expression. It wasn’t blank. It wasn’t indifferent. It was resigned.

Like he had done this before. Like it didn’t matter.

And worst of all, Tim saw something else in his eyes. Not recognition. Not confusion.

Contempt.

A deep-seated resentment, like the sight of Tim alone was an offense. A reminder of something broken and wrong.

The breath caught in Tim’s throat. What had they done to him?

Damian didn’t hesitate. He twisted his blade, disengaging from Tim’s weak guard and slashing downward in a clean, practiced arc. Tim barely managed to stumble back in time, the sharp edge missing his chest by inches.

“Damian, wait—!” Tim gasped, but the younger boy didn’t stop.

There was no taunting, no biting remarks. No anger. No recognition. Damian moved with the precision of a soldier—one trained to kill, one who had long since accepted his role. There was no hatred in his strikes, just the cold, mechanical efficiency of someone who had been forced to do this so many times it had simply become routine.

Tim parried another strike, his arms shaking as he tried to find an opening. He didn’t want to fight. He couldn’t fight. This wasn’t just a test of skill—it was meant to prove something. To ensure that there was nothing holding the Damian back.

Including Tim.

Above them, Talia watched with sharp, calculating eyes, the glint of satisfaction clear in the cruel curve of her lips.

Tim gritted his teeth as Damian lunged again, their swords locking as their faces came close. He could see the lack of recognition in Damian’s eyes, the way they remained impassive even as Tim panted, sweat dripping down his brow.

His broken wrist forgotten in the fight, Damian moved like a machine. He still used both arms, and Tim’s heart twisted at every movement where Damian was forced to use his broken wrist to parry or to steady himself.

Damian ducked and weaved like he was made of air itself – but there was a hesitation in every movement. The trepidation like Damian couldn’t tell if Tim was friend or foe.

But, that didn’t matter if Tim died fighting him.

“Damian!” Tim shouted, rolling backward and lunging out of the way of another jab. Damian flinched, eyes flickering towards Tim’s with surprise as he backed up, putting more space in between them. The surprise and confusion quickly fell back into cold neutrality, and Tim almost convinced himself that he imagined it.

But he knew he didn’t.

Damian’s eyes flickered with confusion, as if battling something internally in his mind. But he bit his lip, steadying himself. 

Tim barely had time to react before Damian was on him again, a whirlwind of ruthless precision and sheer, unrelenting force. Their swords clashed in rapid succession, each strike sending tremors through Tim’s arms, each impact pushing him further and further back.

Damian fought like a machine—no wasted movement, no emotion behind his attacks, just cold, calculated strikes designed to kill. Tim barely managed to parry the next blow, his body sluggish from exhaustion and pain, but Damian was relentless. His blade whistled through the air, cutting so close that Tim felt the wind shift against his skin.

Tim ducked, rolling to the side just as Damian’s sword slashed down where his head had been seconds before. He tried to catch his breath, his chest heaving, but Damian gave him no time to recover. He came at him again, forcing Tim to block desperately, barely managing to keep up.

A feint—a flicker of movement to the left before Damian spun and kicked out. Tim took the hit straight to his ribs, a choked gasp ripping from his throat as the force sent him stumbling back.

He’s going to kill me.

It wasn’t a thought of fear—it was just fact. Damian wasn’t holding back, wasn’t hesitating. Whatever remnants of his own will still existed, they weren’t strong enough to override the conditioning, the expectations, the sheer weight of what had been forced onto him.

But Tim wasn’t giving up.

He wasn’t going to lose Damian.

Damian lunged again, and this time, Tim met him head-on. Instead of retreating, he surged forward, meeting Damian’s blade with his own in a clash of metal that rang through the arena. The sheer force of the impact jarred both of them, their arms shaking from the pressure.

Tim twisted, forcing Damian’s sword down, and locking them together in a deadlock.

Tim could see the sweat beading on his brow, the slight tremor in his lip—the faintest sign of hesitation, so deeply buried it was almost imperceptible.

“ I know you’re in there ,” Tim gasped, pushing against Damian’s strength. “I know they did something to you. But you’re stronger than this.” Damian’s breath hitched—so faint, so quick, but Tim noticed. He faltered.

It was small—his grip slackening for only a second—but Tim took advantage of it. He wrenched his sword free, twisting around Damian’s guard and slamming the hilt against his wrist. Damian’s fingers spasmed, and his sword clattered to the ground.

The arena seemed to tremble.

Damian stood there, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Then, as if in slow motion, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head in submission. And then, to Tim’s horror, he reached for the hem of his tunic, beginning to pull it over his head.

Tim’s stomach turned. Oh God, no. His mind reeled back to the first time that Damian did that – that singular move that seemed to haunt Tim’s nightmares. The idea of hurting his little brother – cutting into the skin that had clutched Tim’s when he was recovering from being attacked. Hurting the boy who drew Tim in the margins of his notes, analyzing every movement like he did all those years ago following Robin and Batman.

“Damian, stop.” Tim threw his sword down, reaching forward, but Damian only blinked at him in confusion. His green eyes scanned Tim’s – for a trick, for a betrayal, for something to betray anything in Tim’s eyes.

But Tim shook his head, refusing to do anything but stun the boy. Tim clenched his fists.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice shaking with anger, exhaustion, and everything in between. “I won’t.”

Damian froze. For a long moment, neither of them moved. 

Then the air shifted.

The sound of boots echoed through the arena. Tim barely had time to react before hands grabbed Damian, dragging him back with brutal force.

“ No—! ”

Tim lunged, but another set of hands seized him, yanking him back just as Damian disappeared through the doors.

“ No, no, no! ” Tim struggled, trying to break free, but the guards slammed him to the ground, forcing his arms behind his back. His ribs ached, his limbs screamed in protest, but none of it mattered.

Damian was gone.

Tim had a feeling about what was going on behind those doors. 

"Why does our commander refuse to enact punishment in the manor?" Damian asked, his voice quiet as he sat on the bench, absently massaging his bruised knuckles. From where Tim stood, he looked small—too small. The curve of his face still carried the softness of childhood, despite the sharp edges of training and discipline that had been forced onto him.

Tim exhaled, running a hand through his hair before dropping onto the bench beside him. "Punishment—especially for something like… losing a fight—it’s not… it’s not how we do things."

Damian frowned, his hands stilling against his skin. "Does the lieutenant commander enact it instead?" he asked, pulling a hoodie over his head.

Tim's stomach twisted. He shook his head—violently, instinctively. "No. We don’t do that at all."

Damian's brows furrowed, his confusion evident in the way he studied Tim, searching for an answer that made sense. "Then… how will one learn?"

Tim’s blood ran cold.

He thrashed harder, a desperate, broken sound ripping from his throat, but it didn’t matter. The guards hauled him up, dragging him back the way he came.

Back to his cell.

Back to isolation.

Back to the agonizing wait.

And for the first time since being captured, Tim felt true fear. They threw him in the concrete cell with such force the air was knocked out of him, as he rolled to his feet, they placed a plate of food and water. This time, his portions were better – there was some wilted vegetables, old rice, but still, the meat had a little more than just bones.

But it didn’t matter. Tim lurched to his feet, banging on the door and screamed at the door – he didn’t want to even imagine what Damian was going through. Tim had given up Damian’s punishment – he had relinquished it. And he gave it up to the Demon’s Heart.

Talia al Ghul.

How could he be so stupid? Tim fell to his knees, his chest heaving with the realizations that they had twisted Damian’s memory. He had seemed surprised to see Tim treat him with such gentleness, yet his face also betrayed confusion. 

Tim desperately wished for Dick or Jason or Bruce. He was utterly alone in a den of snakes – in the Clan of Shadows. He let a sob crawl up his throat as he shoved himself in the corner of his cell, ignoring the burning of his lungs, the stinging in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe. In and out. Steady.

But it wasn’t steady.

Because somewhere beyond those doors, Damian was suffering.

Tim had thought—hoped—that something deep inside his brother would remember. That despite everything they’d done to his mind, despite every twisted manipulation, Damian would see him and know that he wasn’t an enemy. That he was family.

For a second, he thought he saw it. That flicker of something in Damian’s eyes when Tim refused to fight.

And then the doors had shut, and Tim was left alone with the horrifying truth.

They had twisted Damian’s memories.

Rewritten his past.

And now, they were punishing him for something he didn't even understand.

Tim's stomach turned violently, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to scream, to tear the walls apart, to do anything but sit here and wait. Wait for what? For Damian to come back broken even further? For the League to parade his shattered mind in front of him like a trophy?

His fists slammed against the cold stone, his voice hoarse as he shouted again. Let me out. Let him go. Stop this.

No one answered. The only reply was the faint drip of water from the ceiling and the quiet hum of a world that didn’t care.

Tim pressed his forehead against the wall, breathing raggedly. He could take pain. He could take exhaustion. But this?

Waiting.

Knowing.

It was unbearable.

Chapter Text

Tim sat in the dark, his wrists bound tightly behind his back, the barbed wire biting into his skin. His shoulders ached from the awkward position, his body feverish from the infection steadily creeping through his side. But none of that mattered. None of it even registered over the overwhelming weight in his chest.

Damian was gone.

He was like a ghost, like grains of sand that Tim could only hold for moments before the universe ripped them apart once again. Tim made sure to look at every pore of his brother’s skin, every new mark, every scar that was fresh on his face. 

Tim desperately ached for his family – to be back home and eat freshly cooked food by Alfred, or to destroy Jason in Smash Bros, or to simply wander around the grounds as Dick rambled endlessly about some mission he was trying to solve in Blud.

But he sat, curled over himself, alone – his fingers slowly losing feeling and his mouth gagged after he screamed at the door for hours. All he wanted was information. Whether Damian was alive, or how close he was to..

Now, alone in a windowless room, his punishment for fighting against the guards, Tim felt the crushing weight of silence press against his ears. 

No sound of Damian’s breathing, no murmurs of pain, no presence beside him to remind him that Damian was still alive. He was left only with the echoes of the past few days, looping in his mind like a broken recording.

Tim forced himself to take a slow, shaking breath. They wanted to break them both. They wanted Damian to stop hesitating, to stop recognizing Tim as his brother. And they wanted Tim to sit in this silence and drown in his thoughts.

His mind raced with possibilities—what they were doing to Damian right now, what condition he would be in the next time Tim saw him. If he saw him. The thought hit him like a blow to the ribs, stealing what little breath he had left. He strained against his bindings, nails digging into his palms, but the knots only held tighter.

I should’ve done more. I should’ve gotten him out when I had the chance. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve—

Tim bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stop. He couldn't unravel now. If he did, then they won. And if they won, then Damian…

No.

Tim lifted his head, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. He had promised Damian that he would get them out. He would get them out. He would tear through every single guard in this godforsaken place if he had to.

His fingers curled into fists, his resolve hardening.

He just had to hold on a little longer.

Then, like a miracle, the door creaked open.

Tim’s head snapped up, hope flaring so violently in his chest that it nearly stole his breath. Before he could think—before he could consider the barbed wire biting deep into his skin—he lurched forward, the sharp sting barely registering beneath the sheer desperation driving his movements.

Framed by the dim hallway light, Damian stood in the doorway.

Tim’s breath caught.

His face was bruised and bloody, and Tim didn’t miss the trails of dried blood running down from his shoulders onto his arms. Tim’s mind raced with possibilities: Why was Damian allowed to visit him? Did he sneak out? Is he okay? Is he okay? Is he okay?

His posture was rigid, too controlled, but his emerald eyes—those, at least, betrayed something beneath the carefully constructed mask.

Relief? Hesitation? Recognition?

Tim’s mind raced.

Why was he here?

Damian’s gaze swept over him, lingering on the raw, bleeding wounds around his wrists, the way his body trembled from exhaustion, the gag rendering him silent. Tim could see the way his expression twitched—just for a fraction of a second, something like hesitation flashing across his features.

Damian didn’t move at first. He simply looked at Tim—studied him in a way that sent a shiver crawling up Tim’s spine.

His gaze flickered over the wounds, the way Tim’s fingers twitched involuntarily, the dried blood caking his skin. His expression remained carefully neutral, but his hands clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

Tim wanted to say something. Anything.

But he couldn’t.

The gag bit into the corners of his mouth, suffocating whatever words threatened to claw their way free. His body ached from the restraints, his shoulders burning, but the pain was secondary. He kept his eyes locked onto Damian’s, searching— pleading —for something he wasn’t sure either of them could name.

Then, finally, Damian spoke.

His voice was cracked, hoarse from disuse, barely above a whisper.

"Why did you refuse to punish me?"

Tim stilled.

The question—simple, direct—hit him harder than any blow ever could.

A sharp gesture from one of the guards, and Tim felt rough hands yank at the gag, tearing it away with little care for the way it scraped against already raw skin. His throat throbbed, dry and sore, but he barely noticed. His attention was locked onto Damian, onto the way he stood so still , as if bracing himself.

Tim swallowed. His lips parted, his voice weak but certain.

“Because I’m not like them.”

The guards didn’t react, didn’t demand more. The tense shift in the air told him that was all he was allowed to say.

Damian stared at him, unblinking, unreadable, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes—his eyes flickered with something Tim couldn't name. Something caught between hesitation and inevitability.

Tim barely had time to commit the sight to memory—the way the dim light cut sharp angles across Damian’s bruised cheekbones, the faint tremble in his fingers, the tension in his shoulders that spoke of battles fought in silence—before the guards moved.

A firm grip clamped onto Damian’s shoulder, fingers digging in with the kind of force that left bruises beneath the skin. A sharp tug, merciless in its efficiency.

Damian didn’t resist.

He didn’t fight.

He just went , swallowed back into the shadows, disappearing through the doors as if he had never been there at all.

Tim lurched forward on instinct, his body screaming in protest, but the guards behind him wrenched him back with brutal precision. The cold bite of steel pressed against his throat— a warning, a reminder .

But none of that mattered.

Because, just as he was being led away, Damian looked over his shoulder.

It was only for a second—a fleeting glance, quick enough that if Tim had blinked, he might have missed it. But at that moment, Damian’s emerald eyes met his. Searching. Studying. Something unsaid lingering between them, something fragile but real .

The gag had barely been back in place before the guards moved in, their grip cold and unrelenting as they seized Tim’s arms, dragging him back with the casual ease of men who had done this countless times before. His body throbbed with dull, persistent agony, every muscle wound tight like a frayed wire stretched too thin, and yet none of it seemed to register—not fully, not in a way that mattered.

Because Damian was gone.

He was always gone.

Tim barely noticed the sharp snap of the barbed wire being clipped away, the slow, methodical unwinding of its cruel embrace from his wrists, each movement a fresh wave of fire racing up his arms. His nerves were so raw that even the air brushing against his torn skin felt like a blade’s edge, and yet, he refused to make a sound. He would not let them have that victory. He would not give them even that.

The guards worked without malice, their hands clinical, efficient, and detached from the suffering they inflicted. It was almost worse than their usual cruelty—this cold indifference, this quiet precision as if he were nothing more than an object to be adjusted, a mechanism to be tuned so that the torment could continue later .

Finally, the last of the restraints fell away, clattering to the stone floor with a dull, metallic echo.

Tim’s arms, now free, collapsed into his lap, trembling and sluggish, the weight of his limbs unfamiliar after so long held in place. His fingers twitched, stiff and unresponsive, coated in half-dried blood that cracked against his skin as he flexed them, wincing at the way the wounds on his wrists pulled apart, fresh crimson welling at the edges like ink seeping into paper.

The guards left without a word.

No taunts, no threats. Just the heavy clang of the cell door slamming shut, a sound that reverberated through the small, suffocating space and settled into the marrow of his bones.

Tim exhaled, slow and uneven, tilting his head back against the cold stone wall as he tried to think past the haze of pain, past the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, past the sick, twisting knot in his stomach.

Why?

Why had Damian been allowed to wander these halls, even in such a restricted, controlled way? Why had he been given the chance to ask a question, a single, carefully measured sentence?

Talia was no fool. Every move she made was calculated, every decision a thread in a web so intricately spun that even struggling against it only tightened the noose.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers pressing against the stone beneath him as if grounding himself to something, anything would stop the way his thoughts kept circling back to that moment—to the quiet way Damian had regarded him, to the faintest flicker of something unreadable in those sharp green eyes.

Because it was a game. A mind game. 

And the worst part?

It was working.

Because even now, even after everything, even though fear and exhaustion clawed at his every nerve, even though logic told him he was trapped, outmatched, utterly helpless—he felt something close to relief.

Relief just to see Damian standing there, breathing, alive .

And that was exactly what they wanted.

They dangled Damian in front of him like a cruel promise, a threadbare hope just within reach, only to twist the knife deeper, to remind Tim, again and again, that no matter how much he fought, how much he resisted—he could do nothing to save him.

Tim dug his nails into his palms until he felt the sting of broken skin until he felt something real .

But if they had to use Damian to break him, if they had to go this far just to wear him down, then that meant one thing.

He wasn’t gone yet.

And he sure as hell wasn’t giving up now.

Damian limped down the darkened halls, his every step a whispered prayer for relief that never came. His skin crawled each time a guard’s hand redirected him, every unwanted touch branding him with something colder than pain.

 Their fingers brushed against his arms, his shoulders, his back—his ruined, shredded back—and when they shoved him forward, palms pressing against raw wounds, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. 

Lately, his mind had been unraveling, threads fraying like a rope stretched too thin, worn, and weathered until it finally snapped. Damian didn’t know when it started—when the hallucinations grew so vivid that they bled into reality, refusing to fade.

His mind ached with a near-constant thrum, and every shadow seemed to send shivers of fear down his spine. When he glanced too hard, he saw hands grasp at him from the shadows, and screams of his victims whenever he went too long without seeing another person.

The worst part wasn’t the pain.

It wasn’t the exhaustion or the fear curling deep in his bones.

It was not knowing what was real.

By the time he reached his cell, his body was trembling from the effort of remaining upright. He collapsed onto the thin mattress, careful to rest on his side rather than his back, though the pressure against his ribs made it difficult to breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself into the void of sleep, but the whispers in his mind did not quiet.

Damian clenched his fists over his ears, nails biting into his scalp, but the voices would not stop. They repeated and warped, blending into memories that did not fit together, images that contradicted themselves.

“You’re a tool, a weapon, some… cog in a machine. You’re a not person. You’ll never be you.”

“Because you’re nothing. A parasite clinging to a family that doesn’t want you.”

“You’ll never be my brother, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Yet. There was this…emotion in Drake’s eyes. A look in Robin’s eyes made Damian pause. Drake had torn at the stitches at Damian’s side when he was injured, had cruelly cut his grapple when he jumped over a gap in the rooftop ledges, and had harmed Damian to the point that he needed hospitalization.

Damian squeezed his eyes tighter, shaking his head against the avalanche of images crashing down around him.

The sharp sting of a cut grapple line, the cold terror of falling.

The warmth of quiet laughter, barely audible, but real.

A dagger slipping between ribs.

A controller is placed into his hands, thumbs moving over the buttons.

Ice cream melting from the warmth of calloused hands.

Did it even happen?

Was it even real?

Damian felt like screaming – his head was like an avalanche of information, too thick to dig into, yet Damian was drowning in it. He wished someone could tell him a straight answer, could simply inform him whether Drake hated him.

Or, whether the small press of his gentle touch was actually real. That warmth spreading through Damian’s chest, his quiet laugh that most missed, was something that Damian actually experienced. 

Was it something real, something his?

Damian curled inward, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he could hold together the frayed edges of his mind. Something twisted deep in his stomach, a slow, wrenching ache, muscles spasming with phantom pain—sharp and electric, like lightning burrowing beneath his skin. His breath came in quiet, uneven shudders, and for a moment, he swore he could feel them again.

Damian couldn’t recognize their voices, the soft hands that gripped him – but they were so unlike most of his memories, which were full of pain.

Soft hands, light as a whisper, pressing gently against his shoulders.

They were so vivid. So real.

His body stiffened, waiting for the inevitable pain, the strike that always followed—but it never came. These hands were different. They cupped the side of his face, fingers smoothing over his cheek like a quiet reassurance, ruffled his hair in an absentminded, familiar gesture, and bumped against his shoulder with an easy, effortless warmth.

But the faces were missing. The voices blurred into something distant, unreachable, like echoes in an endless hallway.

He didn’t know them. He should have known them.

Perhaps Mother was right. Perhaps he had gone utterly insane.

He was born broken, and only now were the signs showing up.

But she had promised— promised —that the missions would make it better. That if only he listened, if he obeyed, if he let go of the illusions clawing at his mind, then one day, the static in his head would quiet. The ghosts would disappear. The pain would fade.

All he had to do was trust her. All he had to do was forget.

But these touches—these hands, these memories that didn’t belong—felt too good . Too warm. They curled around the edges of his cold, hollow chest like something he had once known, something stolen from him.

Damian couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him like this. With kindness. With a softness that did not demand or punish, did not seek to carve him into something sharper, something lethal. Hands that did not recoil from the blood staining his skin, but instead saw through it .

Saw him . The human boy is trapped beneath the weight of expectation, drowning in steel obedience and silence.

The warmth brushed against the raw edges of his mind, a ghost of something lost, and Damian—small and shivering in the dark—found himself reaching for it. Even as it slipped through his fingers.

Damian knew pain. He knew it as intimately as the steady rhythm of his own breathing, as inescapable as the shadows that clung to his heels. He had known it in his mother’s hands, in the sting of failure, in the endless cycle of expectation and punishment that dictated his every move. He had known it in battle, in broken bones and bruised ribs, in the sharp kiss of steel against skin.

And he had known it in Drake .

Drake had hurt him. That was a fact as certain as gravity, as unmoving as the stars. He had fought him in the safe house, chased him down after a mission like a hound after wounded prey. Damian wanted to hate him—to need to hate him. It would be easier that way. Simpler. To reduce him to nothing more than a name on a list, another failed target, another body meant to be broken.

His living, breathing training dummy.

But there was reverence in his eyes. A quiet, unspoken grief was woven between the lines of his expression, a desperation that confused Damian more than he dared to admit. 

He had refused to hurt Damian – gave up his punishment to Mother. Yet, he called Damian’s name – screamed it as he was dragged backward. His memories shifted like light underneath the ripple of water, like the changing colors of smoke, of an aurora borealis. 

It unsettled something deep in his chest, something he couldn’t name.

Drake was a contradiction. A paradox of memories, of soft laughter and searing pain, of unyielding admiration and sharp-edged hatred. Damian didn’t know which version was real. 

There were parts that didn’t make sense.

How could Damian hold only fragments of memories in his hands, the crumblings of shattered glass slipping through his fingers, and yet—he knew that Drake’s favorite color was green?

How could Damian not remember his favorite color, yet know this man’s?

It gnawed at him. Like a dull ache behind his temples, like an itch buried beneath his skin. The knowledge was there, tucked away in the shadows of his mind, but it had no origin. No anchor. He did not remember learning it, did not recall a conversation, a moment, a flicker of time where such a thing had been said.

And yet—he knew.

Like he knew the sound of a blade slicing through air. Like he knew the exact moment to adjust his stance before an impact. Like he knew, in the marrow of his bones, the difference between an enemy’s strike and an ally’s hand.

No.

Not ally .

Damian pressed his fingers to his temple, breathing sharply through his nose. His mind was an unsteady thing, shifting and crumbling like a landslide, and every time he tried to reach , to grasp the shape of the truth beneath the ruins, it slipped further away.

Did it even matter?

He just wanted it gone . 

Wanted to strike Drake down with the same ruthless efficiency he had been trained to wield, to drive his blade through his ribs, to make it simple again—like it was supposed to be.

He had openings . He saw them in the arena, in the way Drake moved slower than he should, in the slight hesitation that wasn’t there before, in the way the fight drained him, left him weak and staggering.

But every single time— every single time —Damian’s blade came close, his hand faltered.

A fraction of a second. A breath. The hesitation too small to see but too damning to ignore.

His fingers twitched against the concrete, absently tracing circles in the dried blood smearing the wall. The movement was familiar, instinctual, but the memory was foggy , slipping through his mind like dirt through his fingers.

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, flexing his aching fingers.

He did not know if he wanted to remember.

Damian pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, digging hard enough that stars burst behind his eyelids, but it did nothing to quiet the noise inside his head. The static. The echoes. The endless parade of whispers slithering beneath his skin.

He did not know how long he had been sitting there, curled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees like they could hold him together. Time no longer made sense. There was only the darkness, the cold, and the feeling of something slipping—his thoughts unraveling thread by thread, coming undone in a way he could not control.

Then, a voice.

Low, rough, laced with something familiar, something safe.

"Hey, kid. You with me?"

The figure wavered before him, flickering like a candle caught in a draft, its form shifting between something solid and something barely there. Damian’s fingers curled against the mattress beneath him, his nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the only thing that felt tangible. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. His chest ached, his throat tight, and yet—

The warmth in that voice.

It wrapped around him, steady, familiar, something like home—though home was a word that had lost meaning to him long ago.

His mind scrambled to find a name, something to call this figure whose voice pulled at Damian’s heart like the moon pulled the wash of ocean waves against the sandy beach. But it slipped past him, like a shadowy figure in the corner of Damian’s eyes.

 His face was hazy, flickering like a flame on the verge of being snuffed out, features warping and twisting when Damian tried to focus on them. That was wrong. That wasn’t normal.

And yet, despite it all, the warmth in his voice remained steady.

"Breathe, Dami. You look like you’re about to pass out."

Damian flinched.

His chest ached. His ribs felt too tight, his lungs filled with something heavy, something sharp. This isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t real. Damian gasped for air that seemed to never come, grasping for something as he slammed his eyes closed, refusing to look at the figure standing before him.

But, the man wasn’t intimidating in his stature – he wasn’t scary, despite his size dwarfing Damian’s curled body. For some, odd reason, Damian felt like lurching forward, like the pull of a riptide. He wanted to reach his trembling hands over to those scarred, calloused hands, those achingly familiar hands, and hold onto them.

He wanted to hold those hands like a child.

But he wasn’t a child, was he? He hadn’t been a child in a very, very long time. 

Damian cracked open his eyes, thousands of voices washing over him like wind. 

"You’re thinking too much again." His voice was gentler this time, softer like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal. He tilted his head, studying Damian with that unreadable expression. "You always do that when you’re scared."

Damian wanted to argue, wanted to deny , but the words stuck in his throat like thorns. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, shaking his head violently. 

"I am not scared," he bit out, but his voice was hoarse, cracking under the weight of exhaustion and something dangerously close to despair.

The figure sighed.

"Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, tough guy." A beat of silence. "But if you weren’t scared, you wouldn’t be talking to a ghost."

Damian’s breath caught.

His eyes snapped open. The figure in front of him blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. His mind screamed at him to focus , to hold onto what was real, but—

He couldn’t . “I don’t—" Damian’s voice broke. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. "I don’t know what’s real."

"I know, kid. I know."

Something warm settled on his shoulder— a hand . Solid. Grounding. But it couldn’t be, because this man wasn’t here . He wasn’t real .

But it felt so good . So steady. So safe.

Damian swallowed, his throat raw. " I can’t remember. " His fingers curled against his temples. " It’s all wrong. Everything’s— "

"Shh. It’s okay." The hand squeezed his shoulder, reassuring. "You don’t have to remember everything right now. Just—breathe, yeah?"

Damian let out a shaking breath.

The man—no, Todd, the name surfacing like the rise of an air bubble—sighed again, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Look, kid. I don’t know what kind of crap they’re feeding you, but you gotta stop listening to it. You’re not a machine. You’re not just—whatever they’re trying to make you think you are. You hear me?"

Damian blinked. His vision swam. The figure in front of him flickered, shifting between light and shadow, between memory and illusion, between Todd and someone else entirely .

And then, like all things in this forsaken place— He was gone.

Damian was alone again.

The cold returned. The silence swallowed him whole. But his shoulder—where the hallucination had touched him—still burned with phantom warmth.

"Don't le—leave… please," he whispered to the empty space where the hallucination had stood just moments ago. His voice cracked, hoarse from disuse, from screaming, from too many nights spent swallowing down words that never reached anyone’s ears.

He hated it. Hated how weak he sounded. Hated that he had let himself hope —even for a second—that someone had really been there.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

He clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed himself deeper into the corner of his cot, as if he could shrink himself out of existence, as if he could fold himself so small that the world might forget he was there.

His shoulder still burned with phantom warmth, a cruel reminder of what had never been real.

Not real, not real, not real—

But it had felt real.

And wasn’t that worse?

A broken breath left his lips, barely audible over the pounding in his skull. His fingers dug into the thin fabric of his shirt, as if anchoring himself to something, anything, to stop the way his mind reeled and spun.

He tried to silence the whispers, the voices, the hollow ache in his chest. Tried to swallow down the pitiful, shaking sound that almost left his throat. Tried to pretend that the hallucination hadn’t left him just as alone as before.

But no matter how tightly he curled in on himself, no matter how much he told himself it didn’t matter —

It did.

Damian’s hands trembled as he threaded the needle through his torn skin, each movement a fresh spark of agony licking up his spine. His breath came out in short, shuddering gasps, his vision blurred at the edges, his body burning from the inside out. His back throbbed, his side ached, and his fingers, slick with blood, fumbled with the thread. He was not weak. He could not be weak. Weakness was punished. Weakness was torn out of him, ripped away like flesh from bone.

Still, when the needle pierced too deep when the pain became too much, his shoulders curled inward, and something in his chest fractured further.

Then—

A hand.

Not real, not real, not real.

But so impossibly warm against his own.

Damian froze, breath hitching in his throat, his pulse pounding like a drum in his ears. The room remained dim, cast in the dull glow of flickering candlelight, and yet—when he lifted his head, a figure knelt before him. 

A boy, older than him, but not in the way that made him threatening. No, his face was open, kind, his blue eyes—blue? Had they always been blue?—gleamed with something soft, something gentle. Something Damian couldn’t name.

And he was smiling.

Not the cruel, knowing smirks of his trainers. Not the sharp-edged grins of the guards who relished in his suffering. No—this was different. This was light. This was warmth.

Todd?

“You’re not real,” he rasped. His voice cracked from disuse, hoarse, and weak, but there was something desperate in it. “You’re—” He shook his head violently, pressing a hand against his temple as though he could force the vision away. “You’re not real. ”

Todd didn’t waver.

Damian squeezed his eyes shut. He forced his nails into his palms, breathing heavily through his nose. 

Todd reached out, his fingers brushing against Damian’s bloodied hands, steadying them. "You’re doing fine," he said, voice gentle, reassuring. "You just need to go slower. Here—let me help."

Todd’s hand brushed his, and it felt so, impossibly soft. Like it couldn’t exist in this world, in a world like this. When Damian hissed, leaning back as he threaded the needle through his skin again, Todd reached up.

Damian initially thought it would be a bad hallucination – a memory twisting this one, a good person that Damian remembered. Who was clear-cut in his shattered mind, like a singular piece of glass unmarred by scratches or fog.

A warm, solid hand rested on his head, fingers threading gently through his sweat-damp hair, ruffling it just slightly. The touch sent a shock through Damian’s system, his whole body going rigid. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t a strike, wasn’t a grip meant to control or restrain. It was soft.

And it was unbearable.

Damian squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head so violently his whole body trembled with the force of it. Damian choked out a breath, something dangerously close to a sob clawing up his throat. His shoulders trembled.

“It’s okay,” Todd murmured, thumb brushing against his temple, his voice steady, patient. “You don’t have to keep it all in.”

"No," he whispered. "No, you are not real."

Todd’s expression softened, and there was something unbearably sad in the way he looked at Damian, something understanding. "But I am," he murmured.

Damian let out a shuddering breath, his fingers curling into his ruined tunic, his whole body shaking. He wanted to believe it. He wanted it so badly that it hurt. But wanting something did not make it true.

He wanted it so badly it hurt more than the wounds on his back, more than the bruises littering his skin.

Damian let out a sob. He pressed his forehead against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, as though that would somehow make the warmth fade, make the phantom touch disappear.

So he shook his head again, fresh tears burning down his cheeks. "No," he repeated, his voice breaking. "No, you’re not."

Todd—this boy, this warmth, this ache in Damian’s chest—only smiled.

The shadows stretched long against the stone walls, and Damian was alone.

Wayne Manor was suffocating.

It wasn’t just the silence—it was the weight of it, the way it pressed into the walls, into the very foundation of the house that was supposed to be a home. It was the way the halls echoed with the absence of voices, of laughter, of footsteps that should have been there.

It was the way the family had shattered and no one knew how to put the pieces back together.

Bruce was barely a presence anymore. He spent more time in the Cave than anywhere else, pouring over leads, security footage, anything that might give him a direction—some sliver of hope that would lead him back to Tim and Damian. But Bruce wasn’t really looking for them. He was chasing ghosts, moving like a machine, and it scared Jason more than he wanted to admit.

Bruce had lost too many people already. He wasn’t letting himself lose more.

But Dick?

Dick was breaking apart right in front of Jason’s eyes.

Jason had seen it happen before, in the way Dick had lost people over and over again. Dick had lost him, had lost Damian, and now Tim.

Every brother he had mourned at one point.

Now, it was happening again—but worse, because this time, Dick wasn’t even trying to hold himself together.

Jason found him in the Cave more often than not, pushing his body past its limits, punishing himself with training routines meant to make him collapse. His hands were raw, bruised from hours of striking the training dummy, his movements sharp, angry. He was always moving, always fighting, because stopping meant having to think.

Meant having to feel.

Jason had tried to talk to him—multiple times.

"Dick, you need to stop." No response. Just the sound of fists meeting synthetic fabric.

"Killing yourself isn’t gonna bring them back, man."  Nothing. Just more punches, more sharp exhales.

Jason had been patient. Had tried the soft approach, the sarcastic approach, the pissed-off little brother approach, but Dick wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even here—he was lost somewhere deep inside himself, drowning in his own guilt.

And Jason didn’t know how to reach him.

“Dick, seriously.” Jason tried again, stepping closer. “You’re running yourself into the ground. You think they’d want this? Tim? Damian?”

That got a reaction.

Dick’s entire body tensed, his movements stalling for a fraction of a second before he swung again—harder this time. The training dummy rocked, nearly toppling from the sheer force of the blow.

Jason clenched his jaw. “This isn’t your fault.”

Dick laughed. A sharp, humorless sound that had Jason’s stomach twisting.

“Not my fault?” Dick echoed, his voice low, shaking with something Jason couldn’t quite name. His back was still to Jason, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.

And then, finally— he turned.

His face was flushed from exertion, sweat clinging to his hairline, but his eyes—God, his eyes. They were glassy, red-rimmed, dark circles smudged underneath them like bruises. Jason had seen Dick exhausted before, had seen him beaten and bloody, but this was different.

This wasn’t physical exhaustion.

This was grief.

“This is exactly my fault,” Dick said, voice hoarse. “Tim and Damian—they needed me. And I wasn’t there. I—I should’ve been there. If I had just…just held onto Damian, instead of letting my fucking emotions in the way– He would’ve…Tim would’ve….” His breathing hitched, his fists clenching at his sides. “I let them down, Jason. I let all of you down.”

Jason frowned. “That’s not true.”

Dick shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it.” Jason stepped closer. “Because right now? All I see is my dumbass big brother punishing himself for something that wasn’t his fault.”

Dick’s lips pressed into a thin line. His breath came out sharp, uneven. He wanted to argue—Jason could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, in the way his jaw clenched—but he didn’t.

Instead, he turned back to the training dummy. Ignored him.

Jason swallowed the frustration clawing at his throat. He wasn’t good at this—wasn’t good at saying the right thing, at being soft when people needed it. That was Dick’s job —Dick was supposed to be the glue that held them together.

But now?

Now Jason had to be the one to pick up the pieces.

He watched as Dick moved again, his stance wobbling, his exhaustion clear, but he kept going. Pushing through the pain, through the aching in his limbs, through the grief that was eating him alive from the inside out.

Jason didn’t know how long he watched before it happened.

CRACK.

Dick’s next kick sent the training dummy flying, the force of it making it crash into the cave wall with a heavy thud.

Jason flinched.

But Dick—Dick was trembling.

His chest heaved, his fists shaking at his sides, his head bowed as if he was bracing for impact. And then, in a voice so small, so utterly broken, he rasped,

“I just want them home.”

Jason’s breath caught.

Dick let out a shuddering exhale, shoulders hunching inward, his body curling like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer will alone. His voice cracked—completely shattered—as he choked out,

“Wh…Why can’t I just…have my f-family ba—”

The words never fully left his mouth.

Because he broke.

Jason didn’t think—he just moved.

In one step, he was in front of Dick, pulling him into his arms. Dick stiffened—fought it—for all of two seconds before he collapsed against Jason’s chest, fingers twisting into the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline.

And then he sobbed.

Not the quiet kind, not the kind you could bite back and pretend wasn’t happening—loud, gut-wrenching, violent sobs that shook his whole body. His grief tore out of him, raw and unchecked, and Jason could do nothing but hold him through it.

“Yeah,” Jason murmured, swallowing against the tightness in his own throat and letting light tears trail down his face. His fingers dug into the back of Dick’s shirt, holding on like letting go wasn’t an option. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Damian stood at the rooftop's precipice, still wearing his ꅐꎡꅔꀧꇞꀟ costume. His cape blew in the wind as he stared over the city.

Gotham – it never slept, not really. Perhaps, that was why Damian felt such ease walking those streets, crawling those alleyways. It meant there were also missions to do, every single day. It meant that Damian still had a purpose.

A soul.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” The voice cut through the night, sharp and impatient, laced with an irritation that felt just shy of violent.

Damian flinched, turning his head to glance at Drake, his head tilted as he worked on something on his costume.

“I–”

“Whatever. Doesn’t fucking matter.” Drake’s voice was cold, final. He barely spared Damian a glance, his mouth curled into something scornful. 

The teenager snarled, looking at Damian with such… visceral hate in his eyes. Damian was used to eyes glancing over his figure, seeing him as something inhuman. 

Something to be used and disposed of – he saw it in the gleam of his Mother’s eyes when he crawled back to the base, bloodied and the target still breathing. He saw it in the curl of Grandfather’s lip when he failed to withstand all of his toxins and poisons. 

But this look was different. It saw past all the barriers that Damian had carefully constructed, to hide this soft, human within him.

It saw Damian for what he truly was, and hated him anyway.

“Just…don’t come near me, this patrol. Your fucking body gives me the heeby jeebies.” Damian’s breath caught.

Something inside him twisted, and shriveled.

Drake’s words shouldn’t have hurt.

But they did.

Slowly, hesitantly, Damian looked down at himself—and froze.

Carefully, slowly, Damian looked down at his body and felt something sink in his stomach.

The flesh was gone, replaced by smooth, gleaming metal. Cold and unnatural, pieces of him taken and rewritten in steel. He jerked back, the sharp clink of his joints reverberating in the empty air.

Every limb, every piece of flesh that scars twisting over the curve of his arms, replaced by a cold, steel. He pulled up his uniform, gagging at how the metal clinked with every movement. He had cherished his scars – it had shown that he had survived, had outlived something.

Had constantly reminded him that he was human.

And yet, it was all gone. Damian felt a sob work its way through his throat as he backed up, something akin to a whimper, a keen. It was the only human thing about him now.

“I..I don’t want this,” Damian whispered, curling his metallic fingers as they dragged through his sweat-soaked and bloody hair. Drake turned to him, eyebrows furrowed as he took in Damian’s curled figure. “I...I…” Damian reached forward, yearning for…

Damian didn’t know.

For a second—a brief, agonizing second—Damian let himself believe that Drake would reach back.

That he would take his hand, trace the wires and circuits with gentle fingers, and tell him that he was still Damian.

That he was still worth something.

And then Drake turned around with a scoff, disappearing into the night like smoke. 

Was Damian that unlovable?

When Damian woke up, gasping for air and clutching the cement walls like it was the only thing grounding him, he knew it was going to be a bad day. The shadows were louder – like screams of victims ringing in his ear like tinnitus.

Normally, he would ignore the hands grasping at his feet, the cruel smile of a black-haired boy staring at him from the corner.

He even ignored the whistle that came from the halls, echoing like a cruel reminder of how much blood coated Damian’s hands. But, today, it seemed to accelerate.

As if Damian couldn’t go as long as five seconds without wanting to fall back asleep. They always got worse when he was alone – and that was his punishment. It wasn’t just the beatings, the pain. No, Damian knew how to cope with that.

It was the isolation. 

Back at the manor, he got used to always being around someone. Even if they hurt him. Even if it meant them slamming his head into the wall, smashing his head into the granite countertop. 

There were so many memories that didn’t fit, though. Memories of…soft fingers and gentle laughter. 

Damian shook his head.

No. No, not today. He couldn’t afford to get lost in those thoughts, not when his mind was already teetering on the edge of something too deep, too dark.

Damian pressed his back against the cold cement, digging his nails into the rough surface, trying to remind himself that this was real. The sting beneath his fingertips, the sharp chill of the air against his damp skin—that was reality. Not the whispers slithering in his ears, not the phantom hands tightening around his ankles, not the smiling boy watching him from the corner of the cell with dead, hollow eyes.

The hallucinations were worse today. Louder. Hungrier.

He curled in on himself, gritting his teeth against the urge to speak.

They wanted him to respond. They always did. If he acknowledged them, they would become real.

A shiver ran down his spine as the whistling in the halls grew closer, curling around him like smoke, slipping into his ears, mouth, and lungs. He clamped his hands over his ears, curling his knees to his chest.

For some strange, inexplicable reason, Damian’s thoughts drifted to Drake. To the way he had simply said, “I’m not them.” So effortlessly. So certainly.

It made no sense. Not when Drake had hurt him so many times before. Not when they all had. 

It didn’t matter.

It had been days since he had last seen Drake—since he had seen anyone at all. The silence stretched long and empty, filling the cracks of his mind like water seeping into fractured stone, widening the gaps, making them harder to ignore.

Sure, the guards still made their rounds. They never let him forget what pain felt like – what it was like to be seen as…well, they never let him forget he wasn’t human.

Damian exhaled softly, pressing his fingers against the deep bloom of a bruise on his jaw. The ache was grounding. A tether to the present. Proof that he was still here.

Still something.

But what?

Most days, he was less than human. A shadow, a tool, something to be used when it suited them and discarded when it did not. If he wasn’t spilling blood, he wasn’t worth acknowledging. If his hands weren’t slick and red, he was nothing at all.

He hadn’t been sent on a mission in—he wasn’t sure how long. Time blurred when the days bled together, indistinct and suffocating. His fingers twitched, restless. It wasn’t the killing he missed, not really.

It was the movement. The illusion of freedom. The fleeting moments where he could walk through the world as something more than a caged thing, even if his only purpose was to bring death.

Even if he was only wandering the earth as a reaper. He turned his head away from Todd, the man leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest – sometimes the man changed. Some days, he was kind and open, tall and muscular. Like the build of someone meant to move.

Other times, his features morphed to be harsher, sharper. His eyes were the same emerald green as Damian’s. 

And sometimes, he looked like…like…

Damian shook his head, ignoring the aching, hollow feeling in his chest. Damian didn’t like to think about it.

Didn’t like to acknowledge the way his skin ached—not from bruises or broken bones, but from absence. From the lack of something warm, something solid, something human . It was pathetic. Weak. He knew that. And yet—

His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, but it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted. Just—something.

A hand on his shoulder. Fingers threading through his hair. A weight against his back, pressing him into the earth, into something real. Even if it was a fist slamming into his ribs. Even if it was fingers twisting in his collar, dragging him forward like a dog on a leash.

At least then, he wouldn’t be alone. He knew how to endure pain. How to bite down on a scream, how to keep himself from breaking, how to take every hit without flinching.

But this? The emptiness? The sheer, unbearable nothingness stretching between him and the rest of the world?

There was no training for this. No lesson to survive it.

It crawled beneath his skin, coiled in his ribs like something alive, something waiting. Sometimes, he thought of hands—warm hands, steady hands, hands that never sought to harm him—and the thought alone made something deep inside him curl up and wither.

Because no one was coming. No one was waiting for him, arms outstretched, ready to pull him close and whisper reassurances into his ear.

If he wanted touch, he would have to earn it the only way he knew how. In blood. In bruises. In obedience. He just had to wait.

The room was dimly lit, the torches lining the walls flickering with an eerie glow. The scent of damp stone filled the air, mingling with the distant, metallic tang of blood that never seemed to leave this place.

The stone beneath their feet was rough, worn down by years of brutal, relentless combat.

Tim shifted uncomfortably as the guards positioned themselves around the perimeter of the room, their expressions impassive, arms crossed over their chests. He knew their presence wasn’t for his safety—it never was. They were here to watch Damian.

To see if he would break again.

The floor was hard beneath Tim’s knees. Cold. Unforgiving. He barely registered the ache in his muscles anymore. It was nothing compared to the raw, festering wound on his side, hidden beneath his tunic, the infection pulsing like a second heartbeat.

Damian stood across from him, barefoot on the smooth stone floor, his breathing shallow, his posture tight.

Tim had lost count of how many times they’d been forced to fight under the watchful, indifferent eyes of the guards. No audience, no spectators—just them. Just a sick game where no one won. The hours had started to blend – and Tim hadn’t seen Damian since his visit. His wrists were wrapped tightly in gauze, and Tim was given a small amount of materials to keep him from the brink of death.

“Begin,” one of the guards barked.

Damian hesitated.

Tim could see the conflict in his eyes—the war waging beneath his skin, just below the surface. Damian’s fingers clenched around the dull-edged training dagger in his hand, his knuckles white.

A second passed. Then another.

A guard did something – Tim couldn’t hear it, couldn’t see the physical change in the room. But, for a moment, Damian’s breath hitched, his shoulders tensing as if physically fighting something back. Tim’s eyes glanced towards the Guards, but they remained to the side.

But he knew they did something.

In a flash, Damian darted forward, his feet barely making a sound against the smooth stone, and Tim barely had enough time to raise his arm before Damian was on him, the dull dagger slashing through the air in a precise arc.

Tim caught his wrist, twisting just enough to divert the strike, and then retaliated with a swift jab to the ribs, but Damian was already gone, slipping out of reach before he could land a solid hit.

It was a dance they had done over and over again, countless times in this very room. Damian attacked, and Tim defended. Tim countered, and Damian evaded. The cycle was endless, a sick game where the only prize was not being punished.

But tonight—something was wrong .

Damian’s movements were off. Not in skill—his strikes were still sharp, his footwork still flawless—but there was a slight hitch in his movements, a hesitation that had not been there before. His eyes flickered, darting toward something over Tim’s shoulder—just for a second.

Tim saw the break in his focus and took the opening.

He surged forward, sweeping his leg out in a low, practiced arc, aiming to knock Damian off balance—not enough to hurt him, just enough to end this quickly before the guards grew impatient.

And then—

Damian didn’t move.

His body hit the ground with a dull thud, but he didn’t react, didn’t push himself back up the way Tim expected him to. Instead, he remained frozen, his breathing suddenly uneven, his fingers twitching where they curled against the stone.

“Damian?” Tim hesitated, straightening.

Damian’s chest rose and fell too quickly, his breaths sharp and uneven. His wide, terrified gaze darted frantically around the room, scanning the shadows, his pupils blown wide in sheer panic.

Tim followed his gaze but saw nothing .

The guards didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t even acknowledge what was happening as anything more than an inconvenience.

Tim dropped his weapon, bending low to the ground to stare at his brother. Carefully, slowly, his hand reached out to grasp Damian’s shoulder. He had never been allowed to touch him – to spend more than a few moments without blood and violence, bruises and broken bones.

But the Guards remained staunchly to the side, their eyes focused on the pair as if taking in every bit of information available. Damian flinched back, shaking his head and touching his ears. His eyes were wide and unfocused, frantic, like a trapped animal on the brink of desperation—ready to do anything to escape, even if it meant hurting itself.

“Dami. Hey, it’s me. Tim, your brother,” Tim said softly, bending down until his face pressed against the floor and his eyes locked with his brother’s. 

Damian shook his head.

Tim watched the way his fingers curled against the stone, his hands trembling violently. His body twitched, spasming in sharp, involuntary movements.

Like he was trying to move. Like he couldn’t.

“Not again. Not…not you too.” He whispered, as quiet as the gentle brushing of wind against dry grass. Tim’s blood froze like ice.  And then—Damian’s gaze shifted, locking onto something just past Tim’s shoulder.

His entire body stiffened. His breathing hitched into something shallow, erratic. Tim turned his head, following Damian’s stare, but there was nothing there. Just an empty corner. And yet—Damian’s reaction was visceral.

His fingers dug into his arms, nails biting into flesh as his entire body trembled violently. His lips parted, but whatever words he wanted to say died in his throat, swallowed by short, gasping breaths.

Tim felt his breathing stutter as he watched Damian’s expression shift from confusion to unfiltered terror. His little brother—his baby brother—was terrified. Not of Tim, not of the guards, not even of the consequences of failure.

Of something that wasn’t even there.

Damian’s mouth parted, his lips trembling as he mumbled something incoherent, voice so, so small. His pupils were blown wide, green eyes darting, flicking back and forth between the space beyond Tim’s shoulder and the solid stone beneath him, like he was trying to ground himself.

But whatever he was seeing—it wasn’t fading.

Tim swallowed hard, forcing down the growing panic clawing at his throat. He needed to get through to him, needed to snap him out of this before the guards decided he was useless and made him pay for it.

Slow. Gentle.

He reached out again, this time moving deliberately, carefully placing a hand over Damian’s wrist. He could feel the tremors beneath his fingers, the rapid, uneven rhythm of his pulse hammering under his skin.

“Damian,” Tim whispered, keeping his voice level, and soothing. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I promise.”

Damian sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath—but his body remained locked in place, coiled tight like a bowstring about to snap.

His gaze flickered back to Tim, but it wasn’t recognition that crossed his face. It wasn’t a flicker of relief. It was doubt.

Like he couldn’t tell if Tim was real or not. Like he had been fooled too many times before.

Tim’s chest ached. A second passed. Another.

Then Damian’s mouth barely moved, the words escaping in a breath of sound that made Tim’s heart stop. "Leave…leave me alone, please.”

And Tim swore—he swore to God—he had never wanted to kill someone more in his life. Not because of what was happening to him. But because someone—some sick, twisted bastard—had done this to Damian. He barely had time to process the words before Damian jerked back, his body twisting violently as if trying to escape something unseen.

“Hey, Hey, it’s just me. I’m real, okay,” Tim offered, raising Damian’s trembling hand to his heart. At first, Damian tried to pull back, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes wet. But, as soon as he pressed his brother’s hand to his beating heart, instantly, the boy relaxed.

“You’re…real.” Damian whispered. His voice was full of disbelief like he couldn’t quite believe that Tim was helping him. That Tim could be…kind.

“That’s enough.” A guard snapped, and they lurched forward, hand gripping a baton as Tim was suddenly pulled back. This routine started to get tiring.

And Tim was starting to get pissed off. “Let me go!” Tim screamed, fighting against the Guards as he was flanked on all sides. On any other occasion, Tim would have had a fighting chance and would have had the ability to break all their noses and strike at their ribs with precision he knew well.

But he was tired, he was weak. If there was an opportunity to escape, it had long since passed. Since his wound had festered he pulled back Damian’s uniform scrap and hissed when he saw the state of his wound.

Sure, they gave him gauze, and bandages. But he needed stitches and antiseptic – but those weren’t necessary in their eyes.

Tim thrashed, muscles burning, rage clawing up his throat like bile, but there were too many of them. Hands seized his arms, forcing them behind his back, a knee driving into the small of his spine.

His breath hitched as pain flared through his ribs—old bruises screaming in protest, fresh ones already beginning to bloom.

Damian was still on the ground, watching. Not moving.

Tim fought harder.

"Get your fucking hands off me!" he snarled, twisting, kicking, anything to break free. His fingers ached to curl around a weapon, to do something —but the guards were trained for this. Trained for him.

Something cracked against the side of his head. White-hot pain burst through his skull, his vision swaying as nausea curled in his gut. A baton. They weren’t even trying to fight fair.

He barely had time to recover before another blow landed, this time against his ribs, the sharp, unmistakable snap of something breaking cutting through the haze.

His knees buckled.

Tim bit down hard on his tongue, choking back the pained gasp that threatened to escape. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.

And then—

A sound.

A shift in the air, sharp and sudden, like a storm rolling in, unseen but undeniable.

Tim forced his head up, dazed, vision swimming.

Damian had moved. Not much. Just enough.

His fingers twitched against the stone, shoulders trembling, his breath coming in uneven, shuddering gasps. His eyes—wide, glassy, still lost in whatever nightmare had taken hold—were fixed on Tim.

And then, barely more than a whisper:

“Stop.”

The guards didn’t even hear him. Tim did.

Damian’s fingers curled against the floor, something tightening in his expression. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his jaw clenched so tightly Tim swore he could hear the grind of his teeth.

And then—

“ Stop. ”

A command. A demand.

The guards did hear it that time. One of them turned toward Damian, glaring down at him like he was nothing. The moment his foot shifted toward Damian, everything snapped.

The moment Damian moved, Tim knew it was going to be brutal.

The guard had barely taken a step toward him before Damian surged forward, his entire body coiling with something raw, something angry . His fist connected with the man’s jaw in a sickening crack , sending him stumbling back. But Damian didn’t stop there—he followed through, his knee driving into the guard’s ribs, a sharp, animalistic snarl tearing from his throat.

Tim had seen Damian fight before. Had seen the clean efficiency, the precision of an assassin.

This was different.

The guard barely had time to choke out a sound before Damian drove his elbow into his temple, sending him crashing to the ground, limp and unmoving. Blood smeared across the stone floor, Damian's chest rising and falling in ragged, heavy breaths.

Tim's breath caught in his throat. For the first time in months, Damian wasn’t looking at him like he was filth beneath his boot. There was no contempt in his eyes, no cold, distant hatred.

Instead—confusion.

And buried beneath it, something even deeper. Hope .

Tim barely had a second to process it before the alarms blared. Footsteps thundered down the hall, the sound of batons unsheathing, and boots slamming against the ground. More guards.

Too many.

A choked, guttural sound tore from Damian’s throat, his body convulsing as he collapsed.

Tim’s stomach dropped.

“DAMIAN!” His body hit the ground hard, limbs twitching violently. His back arched, fingers clawing at the stone, his mouth open in a silent, strangled scream.

Tim knew what was happening before he even saw the flickering blue sparks dancing along Damian’s spine. They were electrocuting him through his nervous system.

“NO!” Tim lunged, fighting like a wild animal, his screams raw, broken. He lashed out at the guards trying to hold him back, elbows cracking against ribs, fists slamming into flesh, but it didn’t matter. There were too many of them.

Still—he fought.

He fought until his knuckles split, until his vision blurred with blood and sweat, until his body collapsed beneath the weight of fists and batons and boots slamming into him.

He fought so hard—

—he didn’t even remember when everything went dark.

When Tim woke, he was alone.

The cold stone beneath him was slick with blood, his breath rattling in his chest like broken glass. Every nerve in his body screamed bruises layered over bruises, ribs aching with every shallow inhale. But none of that mattered.

Not compared to the ice-cold terror twisting in his gut. “Damian…” he croaked, voice wrecked, barely above a whisper. There was no answer. Just silence.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the panic clawing up his throat.

But all he could see was Damian convulsing on the ground, his body seizing beneath the weight of invisible agony.

Damian stared up at the bright LED lights, shining down on him like a prosecutor’s gaze – unrelenting, cold. The room was still, although not quiet. The hum of electricity was still evident, still gnawing on the back of Damian’s mind like he could sense things weren’t quite right.

He knew he was going to be punished – if it was anything like last time, it wouldn’t be his usual punishment. No, they were going to twist him.

Damian knew he fought back once. He had attempted to run away – to someone, someone who Mother had briefly mentioned. Stupidly, he attempted to flee.

And the League did not believe in sympathy for defectors. 

Why had he let his emotions control him as they did? He had been obedient – had been good for so long, so why squash that small bit of obedience they had trained in him? They had provided him with everything he may have needed. 

Drake had broken him – so why, when he saw Drake get beaten, his head bleeding from the temple and curved over himself like a ragdoll, did Damian feel something shift in his chest – as if emerging from the dead?

His chest had ached, and he operated on pure instinct. Like he still had something inside, something deformed and obsolete, that still yearned to protect Drake. 

Damian’s mind searched for something, for anything to explain his actions – yet, it was like searching through a thick dog. When he came close to a memory, to something that might have illustrated this aching in his heart, it vanished.

His arms were strapped down on the metallic table, and Damian couldn’t crane his head without the mechanical collar restricting his movement. All he could do was agonizingly wait. 

 Damian wished they would just hurt him. Pain he understood, more than actions, more than words. Words could be so fickle, could be twisted and manipulated, have double meaning and entendre. 

But the pain was something animalistic, something ancient. Pain could never be misunderstood.

“Do you think you believe you deserve anything more than we have given you?” A voice shot out – and instantly, Damian started to feel sweat build on the back of his neck. It wasn’t the harsh, shattered voice of Mother.

Or even the joking, cruel, manipulative voices of his guards.

It wasn’t even the voices of his fam– team. 

It was Grandfather’s voice—calm, devoid of cruelty, yet heavy with expectation. Not the kind that allowed for defiance, but the kind that made truth the only option. Lies had no place here; they were carved out, beaten down, until all that remained were hollowed souls, stripped of everything but obedience in the den of snakes.

“N–” Instantly, his head felt like it was being split open— there were no words that could describe the pain. It was not like fire or ice, like being beaten or bruised. It was simply pain. 

“I did not tell you to speak, boy.” His voice replied, harsher but no less calm. No less expectant. Then, a sigh. Full of disappointment – Damian shifted under the straps uncomfortably. “I thought you would…do better. That you would not be such a,” The man sighed, his voice full of disgust. “ Disappointment. I thought I had reached perfection, but instead, I got something broken.”

Damian felt something hitch in his throat. He felt like he needed to ask for permission to breathe, for the sweat pouring out of his pores, for the tremble in his hands.

“Remember, this is of your own doing,” Then footsteps. Damian blinked, feeling something twist in his stomach. “Up the voltage.”

What?

At first, it was just pressure. A dull, heavy weight coils at the base of his spine like something waiting to snap.

Then—fire.

Damian’s body arched violently against the restraints as agony spiked through his nerves, a sharp, electric pain ripping up his back, curling along his limbs like a serrated blade dragging beneath his skin. He didn’t scream. Not yet.

The pain was something he knew, something he had been raised on, something that had been carved into him like scripture. But this—this was different. This wasn’t just suffering.

This was punishment.

"You refuse to learn," Grandfather’s voice murmured, calm, composed—almost disappointed. "And so, we must help you understand."

Damian panted, his fingers twitching where they were bound, his body rigid. The pain crawled up his spine, digging in, embedding itself like hooks. He tried to push through it, to separate himself from the sensation, to remind himself that pain could be controlled, compartmentalized—

But then, it changed.

A shift. A recalibration. The pain twisted into something sharper, something ugly.

His muscles spasmed violently, locking up, his vision whiting out for a split second. It felt as though something was burrowing into his bones, as though his own body was betraying him, turning itself inside out.

His back arched again, uncontrollably. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked.

"Increased sensitivity to pain will do wonders for his obedience," one of the technicians murmured.

Another flick of a switch—

And suddenly, his own breathing burned.

The simple act of existing hurt.

His body trembled against the table, his lungs spasming, his chest heaving in desperate, shallow gasps. He knew the League was watching, observing his responses, adjusting their methods, making note of every weakness, every tell.

"This is for your own good, boy," Grandfather said, stepping closer. Damian could barely lift his head, could barely move without agony thrumming through his nerves like a live wire. "You will not resist again. Not without consequence. Do it again.”

Damian bit down on his tongue, hard enough to taste blood. He would not give them the satisfaction. But when the pain spiked again, when it fractured through his skull like a sledgehammer, his body betrayed him—

And he screamed.

Tim hadn’t seen Damian in days. 

Well, he didn’t know it had been days. Perhaps it had been weeks, even hours. Time worked strangely in the cell he was kept in. Everything seemed to blend together, like a watercolor painting stained with hues that Tim failed to understand, to fully acknowledge. 

He had ripped up the mattress and used the inner cotton to soak up blood, tearing up the mattress as makeshift bandages for his broken ribs. Every breath felt unsteady, fragile as if Tim were held together by nothing more than loose screws and fraying wires, rattling with every exhale, threatening to come apart at the seams.

He knew he had to be strong. For Damian. For his little brother, who had already lost too much, who needed someone to protect him, to hold the line. But God, Tim was so—so tired.

The exhaustion wasn’t just in his bones—it was in his soul, a cold, creeping thing that settled deep, pressing into his ribs, numbing his fingers. Fear coiled in his gut, sharp and unrelenting, but he swallowed it down, locked it away. Because there was no time for fear. No room for weakness.

And yet—

He wanted to break. Just this once.

He wanted Jason to storm in, fury burning in his eyes, or Dick to pull him close, whisper reassurances into his hair. He wanted them to find him, to take him home, to hold him together when he no longer had the strength to do it himself.

For once, he didn’t want to be strong.

For once, he wanted to be the one who was saved.

Shaking away his thoughts, Tim’s mind flicked back to his plan. It was a shitty plan, a stupid plan. Probably one that would get him killed, get him beaten until all that Damian could fight was a mangled corpse. But Tim was starting to care less and less.

So, he listened. For the rhythmic march of boots against cold stone. For the subtle power shifts when the guards changed—when cruel voices gave way to softer, sharper ones, when the cadence shifted from deep to warm, from feminine to masculine. He memorized their rotations, counted their breaths, and mapped the cracks in their discipline.

The one thing they did was underestimate Tim. Because he was weak, bloody, his spirit broken. But Tim had always been clever. So, perhaps one of them had misplaced their keys. And perhaps, Tim had waited for the right time to emerge out of the darkness.

The key was ice-cold against his skin, the weight of it nearly foreign in his trembling fingers. One shot. That’s all he had. One chance to slip through the cracks and return before the League ever noticed he was missing.

Tim exhaled, slow and steady, as he crouched at the rusted lock. His hands shook—not from fear, not from hesitation, but from exhaustion. From surviving, from being broken down and stitched back together with nothing but frayed willpower.

Focus.

With a quiet click, the lock gave. Tim didn’t move. He counted to three, listening for the telltale shuffle of boots down the corridor. The guards were close. Too close. But not here. Not yet.

He slipped through the door like a shadow, pressing himself flat against the damp stone wall. His breathing was shallow, measured. Every step had to be perfect.

He moved carefully, deliberately. The League’s fortress was a maze of twisting halls and hidden chambers, a place built to swallow traitors whole. He mapped it in his mind, recalling every forced march, every dragged footstep, every half-conscious stumble between cells and interrogation rooms.

The scent of blood and damp stone clung to the air.

He passed cells filled with half-conscious prisoners, their eyes dull, their bodies motionless. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Then, at the end of the hall, he spotted it—a door, standing ajar, unguarded. A quiet instinct whispered to him that they left it open, convinced that Damian had been broken, that the fight had long since been stripped away, beaten out of him until there was nothing left but obedience. They thought he was too lost to even try to escape.

He pressed forward, fingers tightening around the handle as he pushed the door open.

And there, in the dim glow of the light, was Damian. For a single, breathless second, Tim couldn’t move.

Damian’s head was bowed, dark strands of hair matted against his sweat-slicked forehead. His body was limp, but Tim could see the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Alive. But barely.

Tim stepped forward, his voice breaking as he whispered, “Dami?” Damian didn’t lift his head. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. Tim’s stomach twisted.

No. No, no, no—

He surged forward, hands shaking as he reached for the bindings. The cuffs were reinforced, bolted into the ceiling—meant to hold a weapon, not a child. Tim swallowed down the burn in his throat. Not now. Not here.

His fingers worked quickly, pulling at the locks, searching for weaknesses, for anything—

And then—

A sharp breath. A tremor. Damian stirred, his body jerking violently like he was fighting something only he could see. His lips parted, and a whisper—so soft, so broken—slipped out.

“Drake…”

Tim froze.

Damian’s eyes fluttered open. And instantly, Tim felt a sob working through his chest as he clutched Damian, gripping the tunic as if scared that Damian would slip through his fingers. Damian flinched but didn’t move – didn’t do anything but stare at Tim.

Then, slowly, as if the entire act of lifting his arm seemed to be painful, Damian pressed his calloused, scarred fingers to Tim’s arm, fingers curling over the teenager’s forearm as the metallic cuffs clinked together.

“You’re…not going to hurt me…right?” Damian asked, haltingly. Tim shook his head, leaning into the touch as warmth spread through his body.

“Never,” Tim smiled, shuddering when his eyes glazed over the injuries on Damian’s body. “You helped me earlier. You tried to protect me back there, thank you for that.” Tim’s heart ached at the way Damian flinched, the memory like a festering wound left untreated.

Damian’s eyebrows furrowed as he glanced away from Tim, as if still lost in his mind. “But…at the manor...you–you hurt me.”

Tim’s stomach twisted violently, the words lodging themselves in his throat like shards of glass.

His first instinct was to deny it—to tell Damian, No, I didn’t, I would never —but something about the way Damian looked at him, the uncertainty in his expression, the hesitation in his voice… it gutted him.

Because Damian believed it.

The League had done something to him. Warped him. Poisoned his memories. And God, they had already taken so much—his body, his freedom, his control—and now they were taking this too?

Tim clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “I never hurt you. I swear. I would never .”

Damian’s brows knit together, his fingers twitching against Tim’s arm like he was trying to remember something that wasn’t there anymore. His breath hitched. “But—I remember…” His words faltered, his eyes flickering with doubt, with confusion. “You—you were angry. You struck me.”

Tim shook his head, his chest aching. “No, Dami. That’s not real. They—they did something to you. Messed with your head. I don’t know how, but I promise, that never happened.”

Damian exhaled sharply, his body tensing and Tim could almost see the war happening inside his head—the fracture between what he had been made to believe and what his instincts told him was true.

A shuddering breath. A flicker of something in Damian’s gaze—distrust, fear, longing. His eyes glanced over to an empty corner as if searching for something. He shuddered as if finally relaxing for the first time. 

Tim’s hands tightened around him. “I love you, Damian. No matter what they made you think. No matter what they did. I love you.”

For a moment, Damian was silent. Then, hesitantly, like a wounded animal testing fragile ground, Damian nodded, eyes glazing over Tim’s bloody and bruised form. He probably looked like shit.

Tim had spent his whole life loving in ways that were never returned. He was always the one who reached first, who held on longer, who cared too much. Love, for him, had always been something given, never something received. He had long accepted that most of the warmth he offered would never make its way back to him.

But something in him cracked—deep and raw, like a fault line splitting open—every time he reached for Damian, only to watch him flinch away.

It was never Damian’s fault. It never would be.

Tim knew why. He understood the years of conditioning, the sharp edges carved into Damian’s very being, the way he had been raised to see touch as nothing but pain, as control, as something to be endured rather than cherished.

But understanding didn’t stop the ache. Because it was rejection all the same.

And Tim had spent his whole life being rejected.

“You’re... hurt. Grab my first aid kit,” Damian murmured, pushing himself up with a sharp wince, each movement a painful struggle. Tim’s instinct was to reach out, to stop him, to force Damian back down as he watched every breath hitch, every movement paused like Damian had to summon the strength for each one.

But still, Damian rose, and the way he looked at Tim—his eyes filled with something Tim couldn’t name—stopped him cold. Tim blinked, a wave of emotion crashing through him. His heart thudded in his chest. Damian, in his own fractured way, still cared. Despite everything, he still saw Tim.

Tim hadn’t expected this—this small act of kindness, this flicker of something human, something familiar in the chaos of everything that had fallen apart. He felt his throat tighten as he nodded, swallowing the lump that had formed there. He’s still there , the thought whispered through his mind like a balm to his frayed nerves.

“I—I’m fine,” Tim managed, his voice rougher than he’d meant. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he met Damian’s eyes, and for a moment, there was no fear, no wariness—just the two of them. Together .

Damian’s movements were slow and deliberate, but even as he winced, he did it anyway. He reached for the first aid kit by the cot, his movements stiff and reluctant, his body sore from whatever tortures they had put him through. He didn’t let his gaze drop from Tim, though, as if he was afraid if he looked away, Tim might disappear.

Tim could feel his heart shudder inside his chest, not from pain but from the weight of the moment. Damian was still here —and even if they couldn’t piece back together all the broken parts of him just yet, maybe, just maybe, this was the first step.

“Dami,” Tim whispered again, the words barely escaping him, like a secret too precious to say aloud. "Thank you."

Damian didn't answer. He didn't need to. The quiet comfort of being there, of tending to each other in silence, spoke louder than any words ever could.

Damian’s hands trembled as he opened the kit, the slow and careful movements almost painfully tentative. But when he touched Tim, his fingers gentle as he cleaned the deep injury on his side, it felt like a promise.

A promise that even amid this endless darkness, they could still find light— they could still find each other .

“Let me help you, too,” Tim said, his voice thick with emotion, but Damian shook his head faintly, his lips pressing into a tight line.

“No… you need help more than me.”

Tim wanted to protest, to remind Damian that they were both broken, but at that moment, this was the only thing that mattered. Both of them, together in this small corner of a cruel world.

The faintest, most fragile of smiles curved on Tim’s lips, and as Damian continued, carefully bandaging Tim’s side, he knew that no matter what, this was worth fighting for. They were still here, still breathing , and that was enough for now.

Damian’s hands were steady, but there was a hesitance in his movements, a slight tremor that gave him away. He worked in silence, patching up the worst of Tim’s wounds with an almost clinical detachment. Yet every time Tim shifted, every time he turned too fast or sucked in a sharp breath, Damian flinched.

It was slight, almost imperceptible, but Tim saw it. The way Damian’s shoulders tensed, the way his fingers stalled for half a second before continuing their work. As if bracing himself. As if expecting something.

And God, it broke Tim.

The League had twisted Damian’s memories and warped them until he believed Tim was someone to fear. And even now, even as Damian stitched him back together with that same stubborn care he always had, that fear still lingered beneath the surface.

Tim swallowed, trying to keep his voice soft. “Dami, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” Damian didn’t look at him. His voice was flat, but not cold. Just… resigned. “You’re injured.”

That was all there was to it, then. Not trust, not forgiveness—just duty. The League had drilled obedience into him so thoroughly that even his instincts to protect, to care, had been twisted into something mechanical. Something expected, rather than chosen.

Tim clenched his jaw. He wanted to stay, wanted to reach out and tell Damian he didn’t have to be this way, that he wasn’t alone, that Tim was still here. But he couldn’t.

He was running out of time.

The guards would notice his absence soon. If they hadn’t already. And if he missed his chance to escape now, if he failed—then neither of them would get another.

Tim exhaled shakily, forcing himself to shift away, even as it felt like a betrayal. “I have to go.”

Damian’s hands stilled. Just for a second. Then he nodded once, eyes still trained on Tim’s wounds. 

Tim hesitated, watching him, searching for something—anything—behind Damian’s guarded expression. Some part of him wanted to say something, to promise he’d come back, to reach for Damian the way he always had, even when he knew he’d be pushed away.

But Damian was already retreating, already curling back into himself, shoulders hunched like he was bracing for an inevitable impact.

And Tim couldn’t bear to see him flinch again.

So, instead, he swallowed the words and turned away, slipping into the darkness before the choice was taken from him.

Chapter Text

Dick dreamt of them.

He would never say it out loud—no, he was supposed to be strong, to carry it all. That was his job, wasn’t it? To take the weight, to hold everything together, to make sure the people he loved never had to feel the kind of pain that had already settled too deep in his bones.

But now… there was no one to carry it for.

No one left to shield, no one left to soften his hits for, no one to press against the sharp edges of his guilt and smooth it out into something gentler. The responsibility had always been his, to take the brunt of it—to turn violence into love, to twist sharp words into something soft, something safe.

But he didn’t have that anymore.

He dreamed of finding them. Sometimes, they were still alive. Sometimes… they were still them.

Dick woke before the sun.

It wasn’t unusual. His body had long since trained itself to wake at the softest shift in the air, at the way the city seemed to hum differently in the hours before dawn. But lately, waking up wasn’t just a habit—it was an inevitability. Sleep never lasted long.

Not with their voices still echoing in his head.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his apartment. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His chest felt tight like something heavy was pressing down on him, like if he took too deep a breath, it would crack his ribs open.

His phone sat on the nightstand. He reached for it before he could stop himself before he could remind himself that there was nothing new . No missed calls. No text messages. No mission updates. Just silence.

Just absence. With a sharp breath, he pushed himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His shoulders ached as he rolled them back, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his bones.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

A couple of weeks ago, if he was up this early, there’d be the faint sound of someone else stirring. The soft scrape of Tim flipping through case files. The sharp snick of Damian’s sword against a whetstone. Even Jason, whenever he stayed over, had a particular way of moving—loud but deliberate , as if he wanted everyone to know he was awake but still somehow remain unseen.

Now, there was nothing.

Just Dick, along with the ghosts he refused to acknowledge.

He forced himself through the motions. Brushed his teeth. Splashed cold water on his face. It did nothing to wipe away the exhaustion, the weight pressing against the back of his skull. He avoided the mirror as much as he could, but his eyes caught on his reflection anyway—dark circles carved deep under his eyes, lips pressed into something tight and thin.

He looked like Bruce . The thought made his stomach turn.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the sun was just beginning to bleed into the sky. He went through the coffee-making steps—grinding the beans, and boiling the water. The normalcy of it should’ve been grounding. But his fingers twitched, restless, aching for movement, for action .

Because this —this quiet, this stillness—felt wrong.

He should be doing something. He should be out there, tracking down the leads that had all but run dry. Should be following the whisper of a rumor, the barest trace of movement in the shadows.

Instead, he was here. Waiting.

For what? For Bruce to finally admit they didn’t have a plan? For Jason to punch another hole in the wall, frustration bubbling over into rage? For a miracle?

The coffee finished brewing. He poured himself a mug, but the second the scent hit his nose, something in his stomach twisted violently. The last time he’d sat down for breakfast was—

Damian. A memory hit him with the force of a gut punch. Damian sitting at the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in faint disgust as he poked at the waffle Dick had made him.

"This treat is not good for one’s health," he’d muttered, but he’d kept eating it anyway.

Dick had laughed, ruffling his hair. "You’ll live, kiddo."

Now—

Now he didn’t know if that was true. The mug slipped from his fingers before he could stop it, shattering against the floor. Dark liquid splattered across his feet, across the tiles.

Dick just stared at it. Then he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and took a shaking breath. It felt like something inside him was breaking —fracturing in a way he couldn’t contain. 

Because Damian wasn’t here. Tim wasn’t here. And Dick didn’t know if he would ever hear them again.

What Dick was not expecting, was a knock at the door. Insistent, loud, brash. Dick let out a small sigh, mustering up all the courage that he could. He was supposed to be so much more. Instead, it felt like someone had taken all that made Dick…Dick. Carved it all out, and left nothing but festering guilt and rot.

Dick opened the door, eyes widening at the sight of Jason, standing in front of the door, holding a bag of croissants and two coffees. “Hey,” He said softly.

Jason never did stuff like this.

“You gonna let me in, or just keep staring at me like a kicked puppy?” Jason muttered, shifting his weight, but there was no real bite to it. He looked exhausted. They all did.

Dick stepped aside without a word, and Jason walked in, toeing off his boots by the door like he’d done it a hundred times before. He set the bag on the counter, grabbed a croissant, and tossed it at Dick, who caught it clumsily.

They stood there for a moment, silent. Jason tapped his fingers against the coffee cup before exhaling sharply and leaning against the fridge door.

“You eat today?” Jason asked, cracking the lid off his coffee.

Dick hesitated, eyes flicking to the broken mug on the floor.

Jason followed his gaze, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck before setting down his coffee, leaning down towards the mug, and gesturing towards the paper towels. Dick blinked and nodded.

Dick wanted a lot of things, as of late. He wanted things to be less tense, and less awkward. Yet, there was so much hurt between them. Like, an open gaping wound that Dick didn’t know how to navigate. 

As Jason worked to clean the mess, Dick’s eyes trailed his arms – bruised and split knuckles, messily bandaged. His hair – was rustled and messy, like he had only rolled out of bed a couple of minutes ago. Yet, he had rode his motorcycle to Dick’s. His stupid, angry, melancholic, kind little brother had gone all this way for him.

Dick swallowed a lump in his throat. He was supposed to be the strong one.

Jason rose, washing his hands as he took in Dick’s apartment, face neutral – the morning light cutting sharp lines across his scarred face. “You’re pushing us away,” Jason said, pausing near the kitchen sink. His shoulders were tense – the same way he paused before a fight, the final exhale before a raised fist.

Dick’s stomach twisted into knots. “I’m not—” The protest died in Dick’s throat the second Jason turned around and leveled him with a stare.

Flat. Knowing. Like he’d seen this all before.

Dick let out a breath, fingers tightening around the croissant in his hands. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet, too still, like the silence itself was pressing down on his chest. He swallowed, glancing away.

“I just…” His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line. His knuckles curled against the edge of the counter, still raw, still healing. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. You don’t fix shit by locking yourself in here and pretending like the rest of us don’t exist.”

Dick flinched. He hadn’t meant to. Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Rougher.

“B’s different.”

Dick frowned, glancing up.

“You know that if I notice, it’s bad,” Jason muttered. “He’s been… distant. Colder. He’s drinking more.” He let out a humorless huff, shaking his head. “And you’re doing that thing you do. The pushing away thing.”

Dick exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening into a fist. “I’m not —”

Jason raised a brow.

“…Okay, maybe I am,” Dick admitted, voice tight.

Jason scoffed, sipping his coffee as he leaned over the counter. “No shit.”

Dick’s grip loosened. He stared at the floor, his thoughts spiraling into a tangle of what-ifs . If he had been there sooner. Suppose he had held on longer. If he had done something .

“You don’t think I feel like I could have saved them?” Jason’s voice was quieter now. It startled Dick enough to make him look up.

Jason wasn’t looking at him anymore. His fingers tapped idly against the countertop, his jaw clenched, eyes distant.

“If I’d been on that rooftop,” he muttered. “If I’d gone instead of Tim—” He inhaled sharply, then shook his head. “Doesn’t fucking matter. You can’t keep blaming yourself.” His gaze flicked to Dick, sharp, assessing. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But I could have .” The words tore out of Dick before he could stop them. His hands were trembling. He clenched them into fists. “If I had gone with Tim, if I had just held on longer —maybe—”

His breath hitched. Jason didn’t speak. Not at first. Then, his voice was quiet. Careful.

“They wouldn’t blame you.”

Dick shut his eyes. It didn’t matter. Because he did. Dick let out a shuddering breath, refusing to look at Jason’s eyes. He grabbed his coffee, took a sip of the black coffee, and stared at the kitchen floor. The two of them stood for a while, watching the orange sunlight shift with the sun catchers, as Bludhaven slowly rose.

Jason’s jaw tightened, his grip flexing against the coffee cup in his hand. “But, you still do.”

Dick shook his head, his breath coming in uneven gasps. “Jason—”

“You do, Dick. Maybe not out loud, maybe not consciously, but you do .” Jason’s voice wasn’t cruel, but it was sharp, cutting through the fog of grief that had wrapped around them both. “You think this is your cross to bear. Like if you just carry enough of the weight, it’ll somehow make up for it.”

Dick swallowed hard, his throat burning.

Jason sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, man. I know. I know what it’s like to sit in the aftermath and wonder what you could have done. To feel like every second you weren’t there was a second too long.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “But you can’t —you can’t live like that. It’ll eat you alive.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists against his knees. “Then what am I supposed to do, Jay?” His voice was raw, and quiet, like he was afraid of the answer.

Jason huffed a small, broken laugh. “Fuck if I know.” He leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “But maybe start by not letting it destroy you.”

Dick let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. He wasn’t sure if he could. “Look at you – embracing the whole ‘older brother’ thing.”

Jason let out a sharp breath—something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so empty. “Yeah, well. Better practice now.” His voice was rough, edged with something unreadable.

Then, just as suddenly, his shoulders sagged. He dropped into a seat at the counter, fingers twitching restlessly. He spun the ring on his thumb, gaze fixed downward, refusing to meet Dick’s eyes.

It was strange, the way they could go months without seeing each other—without speaking, without calling, without even acknowledging the space that stretched between them. And yet, in the dead of night, in Gotham’s unforgiving shadows, their movements synced without thought.

A sharp inhale. A step forward. A perfectly timed dodge. For a moment—a singular, fleeting moment—they fit . Like there was no history, no bitterness, no grief pressing between them. Like, for just one night, they could both pretend .

Dick knew Jason’s fighting style better than his own heartbeat. It had been one of the only constants in Jason’s life—sharp, brutal, efficient. The small inhale before firing a shot, the barely-there hitch of breath before rolling out of the way, the way his shoulder tensed a fraction of a second before throwing a punch.

These moments lingered in Dick’s mind like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp, something familiar yet just out of reach. But when they fought together, when their movements synced without thought or hesitation, that was when everything made sense.

Now, though, they weren’t fighting. They were sitting in Dick’s kitchen, the morning light cutting pale streaks across the tile. Jason sat across from him, idly picking apart a croissant while Dick nursed his coffee, his gaze drifting to the window.

Outside, a family was shuffling through their morning routine—kids piling into a car, a mother tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear.

For a moment, just one fragile, fleeting moment, it was easy to forget .

To forget about the weight of missing brothers. To forget about the sleepless nights spent scouring every lead, about the bruises that never quite had time to heal.

Jason exhaled softly, fingers tapping against his coffee cup, and for the first time in weeks , Dick felt something close to peace.

Of course, he just had to ruin it.

"We need to talk to Bruce," Dick said, almost offhandedly. Bruce could be frustrating—cold, stubborn, always prioritizing the mission over everything else. He had a habit of speaking in absolutes, of making choices that hurt just as often as they helped.

But at the end of the day, he was still their dad.

Jason let his head fall, smiling as if the whole thing was suddenly very funny, taking a sip of his coffee. “ You need to talk to him. Leave me in a room with the man, and one of us is gonna walk out with more than a couple of bruises and scrapes.” He looked out the window, his eyebrows suddenly furrowing as if lost in thought. “Why the fuck didn’t he let me go with you?”

“Because he thought–” Dick didn’t finish. It wasn’t needed. They all knew – because they all thought Damian was terrified of Jason. “He needs us both, Jay.”

Jason dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles, like maybe he could pull the frustration right out of his skull. His jaw clenched tight, and for a moment, Dick swore he could see every version of his brother layered on top of each other—the reckless kid, the frenetic ghost, the man who kept rebuilding himself out of broken pieces.

“You know who fucking needed him?” Jason’s voice was low, sharp as a knife's edge. “Who’s in the League’s clutches because he valued a city over his own—his own—” He stopped, inhaling sharply, the words choking off as they burned on the way out.

His hand curled into a fist against the counter, but he didn’t slam it down, didn’t let it explode the way he used to. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was trying to contain himself.

Like he was tired .

Dick swallowed.

Jason had every right to be angry. Hell, Dick was angry. Furious in a way that twisted deep inside him, hot and unbearable. But anger wasn’t going to save them now.

"Jay..." Dick started, softer this time like he could soothe the rawness in Jason’s voice, the exhaustion in his shoulders.

Jason let out a bitter breath, shaking his head. "Nah, don't. You know I’m right."

Dick rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah. I do."

They sat in the silence for a moment, heavy and suffocating.

Finally, Jason scoffed, shaking his head again, but this time, it wasn't anger. It was something worse . Defeat.

"So tell me, Dickie —how the hell are we supposed to fix this?" Jason set down his cup, eyes boring into Dick’s with startling clarity. And Dick wanted to help him, to say something to ease the tension in his shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

The ride to the Manor was quiet. Not tense, exactly,but heavy—like neither of them wanted to be the first to break the silence. Jason had his helmet balanced in his lap, fingers drumming against it, while Dick kept his eyes on the road, his grip a little too tight on the wheel.

Their family wasn’t known for acknowledging their flaws – it was something that they collectively all knew. Like the tingle of hairs on the back of one’s neck, the goosebumps that raised on one’s skin when a chill swept through the air. It was an unspoken rule, one etched into their bones—like the instinct to check an exit route upon entering a room, or the way their skin prickled before a fight broke out.

They all knew. Like a tidal wave that would pull you under as soon as you rose beyond the break of water. If you even acknowledged it.

But knowing didn’t mean fixing.

Still, even with that in mind, Dick could tell something was wrong.

The air was stale, and the lights dim. The place felt still in a way that made Dick’s stomach twist.

Jason was the first to notice it. He stiffened beside him, nose wrinkling. “Do you smell that?” he muttered, voice low.

Dick inhaled sharply. Alcohol. Dick’s eyes instinctively flicked to Jason – how his posture immediately straightened, how his fingers clenched on the curve of his motorcycle helmet. It wasn’t a conscious reaction. No, this was deeper than that. Rooted in his bones, in muscle memory carved by old wounds and worse nights.

Dick knew this about Jason—how the smell of alcohol made his skin crawl, how he always kept his distance when they were near someone who had been drinking. How it put him on edge in a way nothing else did. 

“Jay, you don’t have to–”

But before he could finish, Jason was already moving, stepping forward with purpose, jaw clenched so tight Dick could hear his teeth grind. He ignored him completely, crossing the threshold into the dim Manor without hesitation, his shoulders squared, his whole body wound tight like a tripwire about to snap.

Dick swallowed hard and followed Jason into the Cave.

The sight that greeted them was… unsettling. The massive screens were still flickering with case files, but there were papers scattered across the console, and empty coffee cups mixed in with bottles of expensive whiskey. The chair was pushed back, and in the center of it all was Bruce—still in his suit, cowl pulled down, eyes shadowed and bloodshot.

His knuckles were raw like he’d been punching something that didn’t hit back.

Jason was the first to break the silence. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Bruce barely acknowledged them, just leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you two doing here?” His voice was hoarse, rough in a way that wasn’t just exhaustion.

Jason blinked, eyebrows furrowing as if still processing the words. He smacked his lips as if tasting the air, fingers clenching into fists. “Checking in on the case. Unless you’ve been too fucking hammered to do anything,” He snarled, slamming down his helmet on the small space of table not taken up by papers.

Dick’s heart sank as Bruce remained steadily staring at him. There was no reaction – not a narrowing of the eyes, or stiffening of posture, not even an intake of breath. Bruce simply stared – as if someone had just hollowed him out.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I have it under control.”

Jason barked a laugh, fake and sharp. Dick instinctively flinched. “ Control? You look like shit. And while you’re fucking drinking away, our brothers are—” Jason looked away, biting his lip so hard that Dick was afraid he’d tear it.

Dick took a careful step forward, his gaze searching Bruce’s face for something— anything —that wasn’t just cold exhaustion. “When was the last time you slept?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Dick felt the weight in his chest grows heavier.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion. That was expected. They were all exhausted. But this—this wasn’t the usual way Bruce carried grief. This wasn’t silence sharpened into focus, pain forged into purpose. This was different.

This was a man unraveling.

Jason’s patience was already paper-thin. “You haven’t , have you?” he accused, taking a step closer, hands curling into fists. “Jesus, B, they’re still out there— Tim and Damian are still out there! And you’re just sitting here drinking like—”

Jason cut himself off, teeth snapping together so hard it made Dick’s head pound. He turned away, breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling. He wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t say like my dad did .

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers flexed against the armrest. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it now, something raw and dangerous. “You think I don’t feel it every second?”

Jason let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Sure doesn’t fucking look like it.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered up, something dark settling behind them. “I have been working this case every second of every day,” he said, voice low and even. “I have followed every lead. Turned over every contact. And you know what I have?”

He reached over and grabbed a handful of papers from the table, shoving them toward Jason. They crumpled in his grip. “Nothing,” Bruce spat. “No footprints. No bodies. No goddamn trace. They don’t exist anymore. The League erased them.”

Dick felt his breath hitch.

Bruce leaned back, running a shaking hand down his face. “And then they started sending me files .”

The room went still.

Dick’s stomach twisted. “W-what?”

Bruce kept his gaze fixed on the floor. “You don’t want to hear them.”

The words hung in the air like a blade, sharp and heavy. The Cave felt colder, the hum of the Batcomputer suddenly too loud, too present.

Dick inhaled sharply, his pulse thudding in his ears.

Jason’s fists curled so tightly his knuckles blanched, the tendons in his arms going taut. His breath came sharp through his nose, his entire body wound like a spring ready to snap. “Yes, we fucking do.”

His voice was low, dangerous. A warning.

Then, he moved.

His boots hit the ground with deliberate weight, each step echoing through the Cave, cutting through the stillness like a gunshot. When Jason stood before Bruce, he didn’t hesitate—his shoulders squared, his chest puffed out just slightly, every inch of him ready for a fight.

Jason was the only one who could stand toe-to-toe with Bruce, who could match his size and presence. The only one who could loom just as large, who had the same terrifying, undeniable weight behind his stance.

When they met, it was always like this—a storm against an immovable force, a hurricane crashing against stone. A collision waiting to happen.

Jason’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. His eyes burned with something wild, something raw.

Bruce met his gaze. And he just looked tired.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything earlier?” His voice was a barely controlled snarl.

His shoulders were tight, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he were still holding his breath. For the first time, Dick saw just how old he looked—like a man moments from collapsing under a weight too heavy to bear.

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Alfred walked in. His eyebrows rose at the scene: Jason glared at Bruce, his face twisted in a scowl, Bruce meeting his gaze with cold detachment, and Dick standing off to the side, silent, unsure of what to say.

“If I may,” Alfred’s voice was sharp but measured, “might we reserve this for later? It is nearly lunchtime, and some of us have yet to finish breakfast.”

His eyes flicked to the table, to the untouched plate of eggs and sausages, now long gone cold. Despite the edge in Alfred’s tone, something inside Dick clenched.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head before turning away from Bruce with a click of his tongue. No one could sway Jason quite like Alfred.

Dick sank into a chair as Alfred placed fresh sandwiches before them, the silence stretching as they ate. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t warm. The manor felt cold—not from the autumn air, but from something deeper, something wrong . Like even the house itself knew what was missing.

A light touch settled on his shoulder. Alfred’s gaze was gentle. “How have you been, my dear boy?”

Dick wanted to laugh, but the sound came out stilted, wrong. How was he? The words felt hollow before he even spoke them.

“I’m… I’m alright,” he said, taking another bite.

Jason scoffed, shaking his head. He still had that habit—hunched over his food, shoulders curled in like at any moment someone might take it from him. Dick remembered the first time he’d tried to steal a chip from Jason’s bag. He’d nearly ended up with a black eye.

“Yeah, everything’s nice and fucking peachy,” Jason muttered, voice sharp with sarcasm.

Dick didn’t take the bait. He knew this was how Jason grieved—claws out, swiping at anything that got too close. And maybe, if he was being honest, he understood it better than he wanted to.

Because the fire inside him never really cooled, either. Because some things—some losses—never stopped burning.

Alfred turned to Jason and Jason’s eyes softened with something – regret? Guilt? All Dick knew was that his shoulders loosened and he turned his body more towards everyone else. Bruce ate silently, eyes flicking over the screens.

Alfred sighed. “Master Bruce, you will be of no help to your sons if you are neither conscious enough nor awake enough to acknowledge their presence.” His gaze landed on the thermos near the console, eyebrow arched in quiet disapproval.

Bruce grunted but didn’t argue. Instead, he glanced down at his plate, shoulders slumping just slightly as if he were suddenly feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. Then, he nodded. “Tonight,” he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension like the slice of a dagger.

Dick’s eyes found themselves wandering to the empty uniform racks. To the training area where he first interacted with Damian. He felt something clench in his stomach.

“They send me video files. Audio files. Every night.” Bruce whispered quietly, an admission of sorts. The type of confession that came from late-night talks and perches next to stone gargoyles overlooking the city. It felt weirdly out of place being said while the sun was still up.

Dick glanced over his shoulder, clenching his jaw. “How many have you watched?” They all knew the answer.

Bruce didn’t respond, going back to eating as if it was more a chore than anything else. The silence that followed felt like a living thing, curling around them, pressing against their chests like a heavyweight.

Jason leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, fingers pressing against his temples as if trying to force away the anger simmering just beneath his skin. "And you're just—what? Sitting here? Watching them alone? Letting them keep sending you this shit like it's some sick game?" His voice was low, edged with something raw.

Bruce didn’t look up. His fingers tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Dick’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure which part made him feel sicker—the fact that Bruce had been keeping this to himself, or the fact that he could already picture exactly what the videos contained.

"B," he tried again, softer this time. "We need to see them."

Bruce finally lifted his head, and the look in his eyes made Dick’s breath catch. He looked—

God, he looked haunted. Like whatever he’d seen had reached inside and hollowed him out from the inside.

Jason made a frustrated noise, shoving back from the table, chair scraping against the floor. “Fine. If you won’t show us, I’ll find them myself.” He turned, striding toward the Batcomputer.

Bruce’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I have them saved."

Jason turned back slowly, arms crossing over his chest. "Then show us."

Bruce’s gaze flickered toward Dick, then back to Jason. There was something almost hesitant in his expression, like for once, he wasn’t sure whether he should follow through with something.

But then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the console. The massive screens flickered to life. The first file appeared on the screen—a timestamp, a grainy still of what looked like a training arena. A pit.

Dick’s fingers curled into his palms. Bruce pressed play.

It was an audio file, not titled anything, and sent from an unknown sender. The audio clicked back on with a sharp, metallic hum. A second of static. Then—

"Again."

The voice was smooth, detached. Cold. It belonged to someone who had done this before, someone who did not flinch at the sound of pain.

Then— crack.

The unmistakable sound of a whip against flesh. A sharp inhale, cut off as if bitten back through clenched teeth.

Dick’s breath hitched. His grip on the edge of the table turned bone-white. “What is your objective?” A voice asked, cold, the malice unmistakable. But there was the slightest tinge of amusement, of satisfaction . Dick felt anger curl in his gut, like hot lava.

The pause stretched too long. Long enough that, for a split second, Dick let himself hope. Maybe Damian hadn’t answered. Maybe—

But then, through gritted teeth, voice small but firm—

“Anything you require, Sir .” It was Damian. It was Damian, and it was wrong.

His voice was too stilted. Too forced. Too much like a rehearsed script, he didn’t believe in. The file cut to static. For a moment, just buzzing emptiness.

Then—screaming. Not just any screaming. Tim’s.

Dick’s stomach lurched. The sound was raw, broken—primal in a way that turned his blood to ice. It wasn’t the kind of scream that came from a fight. It wasn’t the kind that followed a well-placed hit in training. 

It was the kind of scream that meant something was being taken. Torn away.

Jason cursed low under his breath. He turned sharply away from the screen, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was holding back bile. The file ended. The Cave went silent. And for a moment, none of them could breathe.

Silence crashed back into the room like a tidal wave.

Dick’s eyes flicked to Bruce, whose shoulders were tight like a bowstring. His breath was barely visible under the tremble of his hulking body. Dick didn’t need to look at his face – haunted, flinching as he turned away from the console. 

Jason’s breath was loud in the stillness, his shoulders rising and falling with barely contained rage. Dick felt numb.

“They’re alive though,” Dick said, though it wasn’t a statement. It was a plea.

Jason turned his head towards Dick, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wet. He gave a singular nod, though his face was full of pain.

“Sometimes, being alive is–” Jason bit off his words, jaw clenched as if physically biting back words. 

Sometimes being alive is worse than staying dead. The words seemed to slip out anyways, silent, but steady in everyone’s mind. Dick sank to his knees, feeling something work its way down his throat.

Damian watched as Drake slipped through the door, his figure dissolving into shadow like he had never been there at all. The absence left behind felt colder than the stone beneath him.

Something clenched in his chest—an ache that did not fade, only deepened, stretching wide like a wound that would never close. It was a quiet kind of suffering, the type that settled into the bone and refused to leave. Damian despised looking back, but the past clung to him like an unwanted specter, following him through the dark, whispering in the spaces between his thoughts.

He wished he knew what was real. If Grayson had ever struck him down, slicing skin in the aftermath of his first training session, or if the memory was nothing more than a cruel distortion—if instead, Grayson had smiled, wide and warm, the way the faintest, flickering memories suggested.

Damian curled into himself, pressing deeper into the wall, swallowing hard against the knot in his throat. Every sensation—every shift of fabric against raw skin, every breath pressing against bruised ribs—set off small, electric bursts of pain that rippled through his body. It was relentless, all-consuming.

Everything hurt. Everything was too much.

And worst of all, Damian didn’t know if it would ever stop.

He had always clung to directives, to the lessons ingrained in him since childhood—the rigid, unwavering rules that dictated his every word, every movement, every breath. They had been his compass, his north star, guiding him through a life of blood and duty. But now… now, they were slipping from him. Fogged. Distant. As if someone had reached inside his mind and scrubbed them away, leaving him stranded in an unfamiliar landscape with no map, no direction.

He had no soul to follow, no tether to hold him steady—not like Drake or Grayson or Todd or Fa—

Damian clenched his teeth, his breath hitching.

His commander.

That hallucination was always the cruelest. The most vicious.

His commander had never wanted him. He had been a stain upon the man’s life, an unwanted burden forced into his arms, left to fester and rot. Damian wished they had just left him in the manor, forgotten, locked away in his room where he could train endlessly—circling the same four walls like a caged predator, so accustomed to his chains that he mistook them for freedom.

Instead, they had shown him kindness, placed warmth in his hands, and let him believe it was his to keep. Then, they had twisted it into something else.

A shudder rolled through Damian’s body, a tremor deep and uncontrollable, like the distant roar of a coming storm. His eyes flickered to the plate of food beside him—small chunks of beef and vegetables, arranged with care that felt foreign in a place like this.

He wasn’t repulsed by it. Not like before. The scent drifted through the air, stirring something deep within him. Not hunger, not revulsion—something else.

It pulled at the frayed edges of his memory, something buried so deep it felt unreachable, like an anchor sunken to the ocean floor.

Damian’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves as he forced himself to look away. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew. And yet, his gaze still trailed back, drawn like a moth to a flame, to the blurred figure slouched against the wall.

The boy standing there—no, the memory —was younger now, his frame smaller, his sharp blue eyes filled with something cold, something knowing. The flickering light above cast shadows over his face, deepening the lines of something cruel, something Damian couldn’t tell was disappointment or amusement.

Todd.

“You’re fucking weak, you know that, right?”

Damian’s breath stilled.

He didn’t— couldn’t —answer. But Todd only scoffed, pushing off the wall with an easy, careless motion, like he wasn’t even trying to get under Damian’s skin. Like he already knew he was there.

“Look at you,” Todd sneered, tilting his head as he took a step forward. “Sulking in the corner like a…a kicked dog.”

“I am not sulking,” Damian muttered, his shoulders sinking despite himself. He clenched his jaw, forcing his body to remain still, to not react , to not give the hallucination what it wanted.

Todd’s expression darkened. Then he surged forward, and Damian barely bit back a gasp as the world seemed to shift —Todd wasn’t small anymore, wasn’t young, and his eyes shifted to a stark emerald green. His frame loomed over Damian now, his face hardened, angry, his voice a razor’s edge.

His hair was wavy, his eyes burning. And yet his words sliced through Damian all the same.

“You’d do anything they fucking ask of you,” Todd spat, venom laced into every syllable. “You’d kill yourself, just to hear the words, ‘You’re a good soldier.’ ”

Damian felt like he had been dunked in ice water. His mouth went dry. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the rational part of his brain—the part that knew this wasn’t real, that Todd wasn’t here .

But the hallucination stood over him anyway, unwavering. Waiting. And Damian didn’t know how to make it stop.

And Damian wanted to deny – to fight for some, minute possibility that he was more than a snarling, rabid dog that followed every command. 

But he knew.

That was the worst part. It wasn’t the viciousness in Todd’s voice, the cruelty laced in his words. It wasn’t even how he shifted like a reflection in rippling water – kind one moment, cruel and antagonist in the next. It was the fact that he was always right.

There was a revolting, twisted part of himself – a piece that Damian wanted to sink his teeth into until all that was left was this snarling anger he had grown accustomed to. Damian wanted to bury, bury this part so deep beneath his ribs that it would suffocate beneath his flesh.

Yet, this piece of himself knew. He knew Todd was right.

Damian wished he could tear that truth from himself, rip it out like a rotting wound, but no matter how many times he tried, it only dug itself in deeper. You’d do anything they fucking ask of you. You’d kill yourself, just to hear the words, ‘You’re a good soldier.’

The words curled around his ribs like a vice, pressing into his lungs, his throat, his skull. It hurt .

And worse than the hurt, worse than the knowing—was the aching.

That part of him ached for Drake to come back

To make this all better.

Damian understood violence. He understood it better than most. Violence had rules, a rhythm, a structure—it was predictable in ways that comfort never was. He understood cause and effect. He knew what to expect when a fist was raised, when a voice sharpened at the edges.

And if having Drake’s presence here meant a bruised cheek, a broken wrist—if it meant pain, but not this emptiness —then he would take it.

He would rather be bloody and broken and warm with another’s presence and his blood, than cold and alone in the vast, empty isolation of his own mind.

Then, the door slammed open. Damian jumped, eyes flickering towards where Todd once stood, the figure now gone. His hands twitched where they rested on his torn sleeves, his breath catching as light poured into the dark cell, blinding after hours spent in suffocating darkness.

A hulking shadow stood in the doorway.

Damian barely had the energy to react, but something inside him still shriveled. His stomach coiled tight, cold and sick, as the guard stepped forward, the thud of his boots reverberating off the stone walls.

No words were spoken. There never were. Just a grunt. A sharp tilt of the man’s head. Damian understood.

Damian rose, biting back a cry of pain as his body squirmed with pain. He limped after the man, following him down the dark corridors and twisting hallways. Every time his injured body would make contact with the ground, it forced splinters of electric pain through his body, as if every sensation was twisted to be more painful.

It felt as though his very atoms and cells had changed somehow. His head was constantly fighting low-level pain, an ache that didn’t seem to go away. 

His body was foreign, alien—something that no longer felt like his own. It was as if his very cells had changed, twisted into something that no longer fit together the way they should.

And beneath it all, buried under the throbbing pulse of pain and exhaustion, a singular thought gnawed at him: This time, he wasn’t sure if he would make it back. 

Damian followed the guard down the winding corridors, his breath shallow, each step jarring his battered body. His head throbbed in tandem with his pulse, each beat a reminder of just how wrong everything felt.

Then, they reached it.

The changing room.

His League garb waited for him, pristine. Too pristine. The fabric was cleaned of any trace of blood—his targets’, or his own. The belt had been completely restocked, every tool meticulously arranged, and his sword sharpened to perfection.

Damian’s stomach lurched.

Whenever they gave him new materials, it was never good.

He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before stepping forward, his hands curling around the familiar weight of his uniform. The soft fabric did nothing to ease the dread curling tight in his ribs. He was still in their hands. Still bound by their will. And this—this was their way of reminding him.

Something thumped onto the bench beside him.

Damian stiffened, his fingers clenching involuntarily. He turned his head just enough to see the file now resting beside his uniform, thick with new orders. His eyes flicked to the guard, whose hazel gaze remained blank, detached.

No amusement. No sympathy. Just apathy.

If Damian looked close enough, though—if he let himself see—there was something else buried beneath that indifference. Something ugly. Disgust. Not at the mission. Not at the League. At him.

Damian said nothing and simply turned back to his uniform. His fingers ghosted over the fabric, the weight of the file like a stone pressing down on his chest. A part of him was relieved.

At least like this, he wasn’t trapped in that cell. At least like this, he could breathe fresh air, and stretch his limbs—even if it was only to kill. Even if it was just another section of his cage.

But then—Drake. The thought came unbidden, crawling up from the part of himself he tried so desperately to bury.

Drake, who had placed his trembling hand to his own heart. Drake, who had held him up when he was too weak to stand. Drake, who he was leaving behind.

His stomach twisted violently. What would they do to him? What would they do to Tim? And if Damian left him behind, what was his purpose then?

Chapter Text

Tim has always prided himself on his stubbornness.

Whenever someone doubted him or assumed he was wrong, he dug his heels in deeper—not just to prove a point but to prove them wrong. Finding solutions wasn’t just a necessity; it was a compulsion. There was nothing more satisfying than watching someone’s certainty crack, their confidence waver just a bit when he pulled out the answer they never saw coming.

Or, as Jason liked to put it, “he was proficient in being a little shit”. 

His fingers curled around the key, the sharp edges digging into his palm. The blood that coated it—his or the guard’s, he wasn’t sure anymore—had dried, leaving behind a tacky residue that flaked beneath his touch. Rust clung stubbornly to the grooves, and Tim ran his thumb over it absently, his mind spinning through possibilities.

One week.

That’s how long it had been since he had last seen Damian. Since he had last heard his voice—thin, breathy, wrong—whispering weak reassurances before the guards tore them apart. Since he had felt the warmth of another body, solid and real, proof that he wasn’t just rotting in this place alone.

A week.

Tim licked his lips, his throat dry from dehydration. The rations they provided weren’t enough—not enough to keep him strong, not enough to keep him sane. His stomach had long since stopped growling, settling into a dull ache that gnawed at the edges of his awareness.

He glanced at the tally marks on the wall again, the uneven slashes a crude attempt at keeping track of time. Seven days. Seven long, agonizing days of waiting, of listening for footsteps, of trying to piece together what the hell they were planning for him next.

But Tim wasn’t stupid.

They knew.

Maybe not everything, but they knew. The guards had searched him—rough, efficient hands patting down his clothes, prying into every possible crevice to find what he had stolen. But they hadn’t found the key.

The key now rested in the palm of his hand, slick with sweat and blood. Either they had assumed he had nothing left worth taking, or they had underestimated him.

Tim let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the cold stone wall. His pulse thrummed steadily, his mind settling into something quiet. Calculating. There was no way they were leaving him in here forever. They weren’t starving him, not completely—just enough to keep him weak. Just enough to break him.

But Tim didn’t break. Not the way they wanted him to. He turned the key over in his fingers, weighing it like a lifeline, like a countdown ticking toward something inevitable.

If they thought he was too broken to try again, then they were in for a rude awakening.

Tim had long since given up hope that his family would burst into the doors, blazing fire and anger, guns drawn and fists raised to save him. Because no one has ever, truly “saved” Tim. There wasn’t much to save – not really. He’s never been the strongest, or the most flexible, the best fighter, or the most proficient at hand-to-hand combat. He’s simply been.

Tim has accepted that he will truly never be “the best” at anything he does.

So, he’s simply trained. Worked his little ass off to get the scraps of everything he’s known.

Tim rises off the bed with a grunt and stretches a bit – routine is everything when you’ve been kidnapped. So, he paces the room, swings his leg, hearing Dick’s little voice exclaiming at how inflexible Tim is and how stretching and cooling down is just as important as any other part of Patrol.

What Tim would give to hear the man’s voice now. To hear his booming, laugh, or hear one of his shitty jokes, or his string of curses whenever he stubs his toe. Honestly, Tim would give anything not to be in his cell right now.

But all that doesn’t matter right now because Tim has a plan. Another plan. A plan that will probably kill him or mutilate him or make him scream for hours until his throat becomes swollen and dry and crackly. 

Step 1: Find out more about Damian’s Chip

Tim had already figured out that it had a failsafe—probably one that guaranteed that in the unlikely scenario that Damian tried to escape, it would leave him with a brutal punishment. But what was it? A trigger system. A range. Was there a way to disarm it, or at least delay its activation? Nothing was without a weakness.

He had spent too much of his life picking apart security systems, dismantling firewalls, and learning how to break things for there not to be something. If he could get his hands on one of their files—a terminal, a data chip, anything—he could work with it.

Which led to…

Step 2: Find a way out.

His fingers ghosted over the key in his palm. He didn’t know where it led yet, but it was something. He had mapped out parts of the facility as best he could from the few times they had dragged him out—the halls, the placement of guards, the security routines.

Tim wasn’t the strongest. Fine. But he had something better—he had his mind. And when all else failed? He would make them underestimate him. He flexed his fingers, inhaling sharply through his nose.

Step 3: Don’t die in the process of Steps 1 and 2.

Tim let out a slow, shaky exhale, tilting his head up toward the ceiling. Easier said than done. But he wasn’t expecting a miracle. And he wasn’t about to start waiting for it now.

Tim exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back as he started another round of pacing. His body ached, stiff from inactivity, the bruises layered over his ribs like a second skin. Nothing felt untouched.

But the pain was good. Pain meant he was still alive. And he had work to do.

He lifted his arms, stretching just enough to make his muscles pull, ignoring the way his wrists throbbed from how tightly they’d been bound just a few nights ago. He could still hear the sound of knuckles hitting flesh, the echo of Damian’s ragged breathing in the dark.

Tim knew that getting more information about the Chip would be the hardest step.

The League wasn’t careless. They were paranoid, methodical, and brutal. Every piece of their technology was designed with failsafe and redundancies to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. But if there was one thing Tim had learned from years of dealing with villains who thought they were untouchable, it was this: Nothing was unbreakable. Everything had a weakness—he just had to find it.

He started small. Listening. Watching. Cataloging patterns in the guards' behavior. He kept track of which ones carried tablets, which ones accessed the terminal in the hallway outside his cell, which ones looked like they were competent, and which ones just followed orders like mindless drones.

He paced the cramped space of his cell to keep busy, counted the tally marks on the wall, and whispered theories under his breath just to hear something, anything. In the farthest corner, he found a piece of charcoal—probably kicked in from someone else’s boot—and started drawing in the cracks of the stone. Just to keep his hands moving. Just to keep his mind from slipping too far into the quiet.

He needed to find a gap – an out, some way to get him the information that he needed.

Damian.

Damian was perfect to them—honed, sharpened, and sanded to a lethal edge. His cell was probably never locked. Or maybe it had been once before they beat the fight out of him. But that meant Damian had to trust him first.

Tim sighed, leaning against the wall when he heard it. A shuffle of movement – or at least, more like a drag of movement. The sound of broken limbs scraping against stone.

Tim froze, the hairs on his arms rising as he strained his ears.

He bolted to his feet, heart hammering, rushing to the narrow slit of space between the heavy door and the floor. It was barely enough to fit a finger through. It wasn’t enough—not enough to see everything, not enough to fight—but he dropped down anyway, pressing his face against the concrete.

And his stomach plummeted.

Two guards hauled his limp body between them, his League garb torn and ashy, fabric scorched as he’d trudged through hell itself. His feet scraped uselessly against the ground, arms hanging like a corpse.

“DAMIAN!” Tim screamed, his voice hoarse from misuse. Damian didn’t react – his head simply lolled to the side as if held up by nothing.

Just as quickly as Tim had seen him, his brother had disappeared, and Tim was left gasping, trying to force down the bile rising in his throat. Tim slammed his fist against the door, chest heaving, bile burning the back of his throat. The room felt too small like the walls were pressing in, crushing, suffocating—

If Damian died, Tim would be alone. For good.

And it would all be his fault.

Tim got captured. Tim didn’t act fast enough. He refused to find a way to incapacitate Damian when he had the chance. It would be Tim’s fault that Damian would die alone, scared, and in agony.

And Tim could never cope with that. His entire purpose in life was to rescue people – even when it hurt, even when it meant he watched his friends die, got beaten to death senselessly over and over. It meant he was doing something.

But if Tim couldn’t even save his brother, what use was he? How would the others look at him?

The answer clawed at him, raw and ugly.

They wouldn’t look at him at all.

And if they did, it would be with that awful mix of pity and disappointment, the kind that settled in their eyes when Jason’s name was spoken in hushed tones. The kind that sat heavy in Bruce’s silence whenever a mission went south.

Tim couldn’t stomach it.

Not from Bruce. Not from Dick. Not from himself.

His breath came fast, ragged, his hands gripping the fabric of his ruined shirt as if grounding himself to something, anything. His nails dug into his palm, the pain was real, tangible. It kept him from spiraling.

He wasn’t too late yet. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to steady. Think. Think .

Tim had spent his entire life playing the long game—watching, waiting, and maneuvering through situations most people would crumple under. He had learned the rules of every game and then figured out how to cheat.

So, he steals his pride, swallows his fear, and prepares a plan to find Damian. Sneaking out again is a risk that would have Bruce sweating, and Jason saying something along the lines of “being an absolute fucking moron”, but Tim has been risking his life since he was a child.

He could have had a life of normalcy—something simple, something real.

He could have gone to high school without faking his grades, without having to dumb himself down just enough to blend in, to avoid raising suspicion. He could have studied for tests that mattered instead of memorizing enemy profiles and battle tactics. He could have joined a club—maybe track, maybe debate, maybe something completely ridiculous just for fun, because he could.

He could have gone to the movies on a Friday night, sat in a too-crowded theater with overpriced popcorn, laughed at all the wrong moments, and let himself just be . He could have learned how to drive at a reasonable age instead of knowing how to hotwire a car before he was even legally allowed behind the wheel.

He could have had sleepovers, late-night fast food runs, and awkward first dates. He could have worried about things like grades, college applications, and what outfit to wear to a party.

Tim would have lived a life in which he didn’t have to bury his friends.

But that life—the one filled with maybes and could-haves—wasn’t his. It never had been.

Tim shook his head, digging his nails into his mattress to steady himself. Tim can’t let his mind wander – not in a place like this. In a den of creatures and monsters, snakes that would see to his end.

Of course, they would never let him die easily. No, he was their toy, their pet. A whipping boy for them to shove against his little brother and beat him senselessly. If Tim did it any longer, he was fucking going to lose his mind.

But he needed to wait. 

Tim has never been a patient person. He’s a lot of things, but patience is not one of them. Especially not with his mind clawing at him, breaking into shattered glass that stings when he tries to clean it up. Beads of glass imbed themselves in his palms, every morsel of energy somehow missing.

He wants Bruce. Tim wants his steady presence, the small crinkle of his eyes when he sees them all interacting, his overdramatic sigh when Jason splurges on items just to fuck with him, and his quiet comfort, sitting on the edges of Tim’s bed when he has a nightmare.

He wants Jason. Tim knows Jason claims he doesn’t have favorites, that he “hates them all equally”, but Jason doesn’t allow anyone else to tinker with his motorcycle. Jason doesn’t let anyone waltz into his apartment to grab his snacks. And when Tim needs to complain, Jason is the type to order Chinese food and silently listen while cleaning his guns.

Tim wants –

Then, a knock. Not the rapid, impatient knock of a guard, the explosion of guards intruding upon his cell. No, this knock is quiet, hesitant. Like the quiet tremble of the breath of a bird before taking flight. Like the scurry of mice. 

Tim’s heart hammers when a figure comes in – no, stumbles in. Tim flies forward, managing to catch the figure before they hit the door.

Tim refuses to believe that this person – covered in burns and blood, breathing light and airy– is his little brother. Tim feels like crying, but he can’t. So, he lowers Damian to the ground, running his trembling hands through his greasy hair, and tries to remember how to fucking breathe.

“Damian..” he trails off, hands hovering over the boy’s body because he doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t been given medical supplies – no bandaids, no Neosporin, not even fucking alcohol. But Damian is just expected to bounce back.

If Damian was willing to come to Tim’s room – the man who Damian believed hurt him in some capacity…

Damian inhales softly as if the act itself is sapping him of his energy. He turns his head, and Tim nearly vomits at the bruising and scarring near the edges of his jaw, which spread to his throat. A perfect handprint greets him.

Tim doesn’t miss the flinch of his little brother’s shoulders – the flicker of anger within those emerald eyes that Tim could be nice. “Do you have any supplies?” Tim swallowed, eyes flickering towards the steel door.

Tim had no idea how Damian got in, how he unlocked the door – or perhaps he had a key for a reason. As much as Tim wanted to question him, prod him with information – he couldn’t do that if his little brother was fucking dead.

But how desperate was Damian to come to him? Or how delirious was he to mistake Tim’s room for his own?

“Belt.” Damian whispered, his cracked lips cracking together. His eyelids started to droop, and Tim quickly reached for the belt, feeling some form of relief when he was greeted with medical supplies and bandages.

“Can I remove your uniform? I…I need to see the extent of your injuries.” Tim asked. And if Tim’s heart couldn’t shatter even more, Damian’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion – as if he couldn’t process what Tim was saying.

As if he had never been asked before. 

Tim’s stomach lurched. Then, as if testing the ice, Damian nodded a singular, shaky nod. Tim smiled at him and worked to remove the uniform, biting his lip whenever the uniform would catch on the spots where the blood and burns congealed together.

When he finally removed the uniform fully, trying his best to not stare at the numerous scars layered underneath the burns on this child’s body, his voice caught.

The burns stretch across his back, angry and raw, blistering in some places, peeling in others. Some areas are worse than others, with patches of deep red and blackened skin from where the fire must’ve licked at him longest.

Tim’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t let himself react. Doesn’t let himself let out the sharp breath that’s clawing at his throat. Damian doesn’t need that right now. What he does need is someone to treat him like he matters .

Tim exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says again, softer this time. “I’ve got you.”

Damian doesn’t say anything, just presses his forehead against his knee, breath steady, waiting.

And Tim—guilt weighing heavy in his chest—starts to clean the wounds, hands as gentle as he can make them. “What…happened?” he asked, haltingly, hands beginning to work to clean the wounds greeting him.

Damian looked away, one eye swollen shut and purple mottling screeching across his cheek. “Mission objective failed.” Tim presses his lips together. He doesn’t ask if Damian was alone. If he was outnumbered. If it was an ambush, a mistake, or something worse.

He doesn’t ask, because he already knows the answer.

Damian inhales sharply through his nose as the cloth brushes too close to an open wound.

Tim immediately pulls back. “Sorry,” he says, voice tight with guilt. “I’ll be more careful.”

Damian doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flicker, searching, before finally settling on Tim – really looking at him. So intently that Tim feels something rattle in his bones like Damian is trying to hold his gaze up to the light and determine if it’s counterfeit.

“Tell me about the manor.”

Tim exhales. “Damian—”

“Please.” It’s quiet. Almost unsure. And Tim can’t say no. There’s an undercurrent in his voice, a tremble of something that Tim cannot place. Like the quake of the sky before thunder strikes, before the roll of a tide.

Like he’s bracing for impact.

“The manor is huge,” he starts, forcing his voice to stay steady. “When I first stayed over, I got lost so many times. But you—” Tim huffs a small, almost fond laugh, shaking his head. “You walked around like you’d lived there for years. Dick used to say you moved through the halls like they were built just for you.”

The memory feels out of place here—warmth and laughter from a home so far away, pressed up against the cold, bloodstained walls of Tim’s cell. The contrast twists something deep in his chest. He swallows, forcing down the homesickness that threatens to consume him.

“What….what about training?” Damian asks, biting back a whimper when Tim swipes at a burn with a bit too much force. Tim

Tim smiles, allowing himself the warmth and comfort of his dead memories. He knows that nostalgia won’t save him. “You loved it. I think everyone does. Dick likes to make it a game. Pretends your hit was really hard and you’ve got him, then he twists and then he’s got you pinned,” Tim smiles at the memory, at the way training had always been a dance for Dick—fluid, natural, instinctive. And the first time Tim saw how Dick and Damian trained together, he knew immediately .

Damian wasn’t just learning. He was studying.

Jason had been the first to notice it. “That kid’s scheming,” he’d muttered, watching Damian take a hit, roll with it, eyes gleaming with something sharp, something alive.

And, instead of fear on Damian’s face when he lost, there was a spark, the crackle of fire and brimstone. “Whenever you would beat him, he would say –”

“You pack a big punch for such a little kid.” 

The words leave Damian’s lips before Tim can finish. And then, as if the words don’t belong to him, his face twists in confusion—like he doesn’t know where the memory came from. “…I don’t understand. Any of this.” His voice is quiet but edged with something raw. Sharp.

Tim stays still, waiting, watching the way Damian’s fingers twitch against his torn uniform.

“I don’t know anything. If you’re real, or not.” Damian looks at him, and there’s something utterly raw in the green expanse of his eyes. “If any of it was.”

“Damian–”

“Don’t lie to me.” Damian turns to him, eyebrows furrowed as he sits up, a hitch in his breath as the bandages curl around the burns on his torso. He wraps his arms around his knees like a child trying to make himself smaller. He hisses, clutching at his head as he turns away from Tim. “You used to hate me.” He paused, taking a breath. “And now you don’t?”

“I never did.” Tim starts, and he scoots closer to his brother. Something in him yearns to lurch forward and wrap his arms around his little brother, feel the warmth of his body push back the icy cold in his veins. But he knows that he can’t do that – that’s not who Damian is.

So he waits. Waits until Damian can find the courage, the strength to open up his heart once again, without fear of it being punctured.
“You…you find me disgusting. My…enhancements.” Damian whispers. Tim shakes his head once again.

“I hate that they did that to you. That they felt… righteous enough to put you through that. But never you.” Tim whispers back.

Damian’s breath hitches.

Tim watches as his shoulders rise and fall, as his fingers clutch at the fabric of his uniform as if he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

And then, so quiet Tim almost doesn’t hear it—

“…Why?”

Tim swallows past the lump in his throat. “Because you’re my brother,” he says, simple and true. “Because you deserved better.”

Damian exhales, shaky and uneven, and Tim can feel it—the walls cracking, the armor buckling under the weight of something too big to be contained.

And suddenly, Tim knows .

Damian has spent his whole life preparing for cruelty, for violence, for the sharp sting of punishment at the hands of people who claim to love him. But this—this gentle, unshakable, unrelenting kindness, it’s too much.

And then, out of nowhere, the dam breaks.

Damian’s breath catches, and a sob escapes him, tearing through his chest like something raw and unfiltered. Tim doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he wraps his arms around Damian, pulling him close as his little brother crumples into him, trembling uncontrollably.

Damian doesn’t fight it this time. He presses his face into Tim’s shoulder, and Tim can feel the warmth of his tears soaking through the fabric. He holds him tighter, careful but firm. Damian is shaking in his arms, the sobs wracking his body, and Tim’s chest aches with the weight of it all.

“I’ve got you,” Tim says quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

But even as he says it, part of him is afraid—afraid that this isn’t enough. That he’s not enough to heal all the wounds Damian carries and that Damian will slip through his fingers again, too broken to ever let anyone truly in.

But at this moment, Tim didn’t care about the fear. He just holds his brother, feeling him fall apart in his arms, and he whispers it again because he needs to say it, needs Damian to hear it, even if it’s the last thing he says.

“I love you.”

And somehow, through all the pain and all the fighting, maybe Damian is starting to believe him. 

At some point, Damian has to leave. Tim knows this within his bones – after stitching Damian up after the two remained silent – he knows. Tim doesn’t know how long Damian has stayed here, how long they have remained intertwined in the crisscross of different fates. The air between them is heavy with unspoken words, the weight of their shared history pressing down on them like a storm cloud ready to burst.

“Your chip, Dami. Do you know anything?” Tim asks, wrapping gauze around a particularly deep burn where the uniform seemed to melt into his little brother’s skin. Damian pauses, holding a breath from the pain, from shock, Tim didn’t know.

“It…it is meant to fix me. Mo– My superior informed me that my latest mission ended poorly. And lately, I have been seeing –” Damian cuts himself off as if suddenly biting his tongue. “That is all that I can reveal.” He chews on his cheek, no longer meeting Tim’s eyes.

“Dami,” Tim says softly, barely above a breath. The room feels colder, the silence stretching between them like a chasm.

“I cannot inform you more,” Damian replies, and when he meets Tim’s eyes, he knows he’s telling the truth. There’s a finality in his tone, a resignation that makes Tim’s chest ache. But Tim has never been one to back down, not when it comes to family.

“Then you need to find out more. In our next battle, use the code. The one we learned.” Tim smiles, and it’s full of sadness. They were taught ways to signal to each other if they were ever put in a situation in which they couldn’t speak freely. The spaces of fingers on the hilt of a sword changed how they dodged a hit.

Damian’s eyebrows furrowed, and he tilted his head. “I do not–”

“You have to remember.” Tim’s voice is firm now, though it still carries that undercurrent of sorrow. He reaches out, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder, grounding him. And Damian still flinches – but it’s not violent. It’s one borne of instinct rather than pure fear.

“I must leave,” Damian said suddenly, rising with a wince. Tim guides him upward with steady hands, trying his best to appear strong. As Damian leaves for the door, he hesitates. And Tim doesn’t see the soldier or the weapon, the killer or someone who has harmed him. Instead, he sees his scared little brother who’s afraid of the dark.

“I’ll be here,” Tim offers quietly, taking a seat on the bed. As much as he wants Damian to stay, to clear the voices in his voice that rattle like the wind. But he can’t ask.

He’s not meant to.

Damian lingers for a second too long. His hand hovers near the door, fingers twitching, hesitating. The moment stretches, fragile and uncertain before he clenches his jaw and steps forward.

Then he’s gone.

The cell door locks shut, and the silence that follows is deafening.

Tim exhales, running a hand over his face. The room feels colder without Damian in it, the absence settling over him like a second skin. He should rest—his body is screaming for it—but his mind won’t let him. Not with the way Damian spoke, the way his voice wavered just slightly when he mentioned the chip.

Not with the way he looked at Tim, like he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

Tim presses a hand against his sternum, willing himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest. He doesn’t know how much time he has left, how many more nights he’ll get to remind Damian of who he is. The clock is ticking, and with each second, the boy he once knew is slipping further from his grasp.

His mind churns, pulling at threads of old memories, at anything that could help.

The chip. His superior. The way Damian hesitated before saying the word "fix." Tim clenches his fists. They think he’s broken.

They’re trying to rewrite him, mold him into something else, something he was never meant to be. And Damian—Damian knows it. He just doesn’t understand how deep it runs yet.

Tim grits his teeth. He’s lost people before, watched them slip through his fingers like sand. He won’t let it happen again.

Not to Damian.

He forces himself up, legs shaky beneath him, but determination pushes him forward. His cell is still a cage, but cages have weak spots, and Tim has spent too many sleepless nights mapping out every possible way to break free.

If Damian can’t find the answers, then Tim will.

Because one way or another, he’s bringing his little brother home.

Chapter Text

When they fight, they are released on each other like caged animals, snarling and angry, they talk. In between strikes and dodges, Damian slips him pieces of information. Of what he can find, of what they know. Spreading his fingers out on his sword, a breath of air, and changing the stances of his fight, Tim can pick apart where they are based on the small things Damian knows.

Nanda Parat. 

Of course, this information comes at a cost. It doesn’t matter if Tim wins or loses the fight, whether he stands above Damian or if exhaustion costs him the game. Because he never wins.

He always has to be punished or punish his little brother. Somehow, they know when he’s holding back – he first tried losing on purpose. To drop his sword and fight – but the League was always intelligent regarding punishments.

The worst part is the waiting in between their fights – Tim has long since given up trying to keep track of how long it’s been. But time always seems to warp when Damian is sent on missions – when Tim can’t see him in the shadows of the halls, or the few moments they’re able to see each other alone.

It’s driving Tim insane.

He’s tried every military tactic in the book – Tim remembers thumbing through a novel dissecting how captured spies dealt with long periods of capture. What they did to keep themselves sane, keep secrets hidden, and their spirit unbroken.

Tim knows they’re stronger than they are. Because he can’t take this much longer – stitching up Damian’s wound in the quiet solitude of the League, growing weaker and weaker every day, the festering wounds growing more and more infected the longer he goes without medical supplies.

He’s wanted to give up so many times – to cry out for Dick in the worst of his punishments, for Jason’s jokes to break through the thick tension when it’s just Damian and him. He loves Damian more than he knows – the kid is the only thing that’s helping him cling to reality.

But he just wants to go fucking home.

Damian’s gaze stays on him, his brows furrowing like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Your favorite color is green, right?”

Tim stills. The words hit him harder than they should. They sit in the low light of his cell – a new one that took Damian days to discover. It’s darker, deeper within the den of snakes. More secluded. It means that Tim has a lot of time to unravel the secrets. Of course, it also means he’s been slipping lately.

“…Yeah,” he says slowly, feeling his heart clench. “Not the green of the Robin uniform. Or a lime. But a softer green. Like—”

“Forest green,” Damian says it before Tim can. Then, Damian pauses, glancing at Tim with something akin to uncertainty. “Do…do you know what my favorite color is?” Damian looks up at him, eyes wide, expectant—like he truly doesn’t know. Like it’s something lost to him, something stolen.

And what shatters Tim’s heart isn’t just the uncertainty in Damian’s voice or the way his fingers curl slightly like he’s bracing for the wrong answer.

It’s the fact that Tim doesn’t even know.

He knows so many things about Damian—his fighting stance, the way he holds a blade, the subtle tells in his body language that signals an attack. He knows the sharp, biting wit, the unwavering pride, the little furrow of his brow when he’s deep in thought.

But he doesn’t know this.

He didn’t know if Damian ever had a favorite color, if he ever let himself have something so simple, so his.

The realization is a slow, creeping ache in Tim’s chest. Damian is still looking at him, waiting, his expression flickering between confusion and something more fragile, something like hope.

Tim exhales softly, shaking his head. “I—I don’t know.”

Damian’s face falls, just a fraction, and Tim hates it. Hates that he doesn’t have an answer. Hates that something so small, so basic , was taken from him.

“But,” Tim continues quickly, his voice gentler now, searching, offering , “We can figure it out. Together.”

Damian blinks.

Tim presses against Damian’s shoulder. “I mean, there’s gotta be a color you like looking at, right? Something that makes you feel… I don’t know. At peace.”

Damian is quiet. Then, almost hesitant, he murmured, “Blue… maybe.”

Tim’s heart gave a painful thud.

Because of course, it’s blue.

Not just any blue, either. Not the dark blue of Gotham’s endless nights or the sterile glow of computer screens. No—soft blue. Familiar blue. The blue of Dick’s eyes when he smiles, of Jason’s battered old hoodie, of the sky over the manor’s fields in the early morning. It takes everything in Tim not to break down completely.

Instead, he just nods, offering Damian a small, shaky smile. “Yeah,” Tim says quietly. “Blue’s a good color.”
Tim exhales, watching Damian carefully. “You know,” he starts, keeping his voice light, “it makes sense. Blue.”

Damian glances at him, wary but listening.

Tim presses on, picking his words carefully. “It’s a grounding color. Makes people feel calm, safe. Like the ocean stretching for miles, or the sky before sunrise.” He swallows. “Like home.”

Damian doesn’t react right away, but Tim sees it—the faintest flicker of something in his expression, a brief twitch in his fingers. Recognition. Doubt . Like something deep inside him is trying to reach the surface, gasping for air before it’s yanked back under.

Tim's throat tightens. They took that from him too, didn't they?

His gaze flickers to the back of Damian’s neck, to where he knows the chip is embedded beneath layers of bruised skin. His stomach twists.

How much of Damian’s truth isn’t his own?

Tim’s eyes flicker to the chip, and he feels a flare of anger in his chest. He’s been meaning to ask Damian about the…visions, the images. It’s only been a couple of days(?) since Damian came to him burnt, and scarred. They haven’t talked about anything other than information – at least, information that Damian is comfortable giving.

If Tim pushes too hard, if he gets too close, Damian leaves, muttering something about protocol with prisoners. But, they’re running out of time. Tim knows his family will never stop searching – but he also knows he’s getting weaker.

And he really doesn’t want to have Damian see him die in this place. “Dami, your chip. Can you tell me…anything?” he asks, softly at first. Tim sees Damian stiffen at first, eyes still trained on the cut on Tim’s leg.

“It was meant to enhance my performance. That is what M– my commander told me.” Damian mutters, but Tim furrows his head.

Because from what Damian is saying, it’s as if it’s always been there. As if Damian is used to it. But Tim knows this is wrong – because before Damian got captured before they got pulled down into the nine circles of hell, he hated it as much as the rest of them.

So, it means that Damian’s information can’t be trusted, especially if a snake is feeding him lies.

Tim clenches his jaw, schooling his expression into something neutral. Something safe. Because if Damian thinks for even a second that Tim doesn’t believe him, he’ll shut down.

And Tim can’t afford that.

He shifts, wincing as the cut on his leg tugs, but keeps his focus on Damian. “Okay,” he says slowly, threading patience into his voice. “But… do you remember when they put it in?”

Damian’s fingers twitch against the bandage he’s securing over Tim’s wound. His lips press into a thin line. “No,” he says, but there’s a slight delay. A pause just barely long enough for Tim to notice.

Damian doesn’t lie, not outright. But he deflects, redirects, omits.

Tim exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. So, what does it do?”

Damian’s grip on the bandage tightens for a second before he shifts back, settling into a crouch. The dim lighting makes the bruises on his face look worse, shadowing the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the cut splitting his lip. He’s paler than usual like he’s losing something.

Tim hates it.

“It…” Damian hesitates. “It assists in combat. Heightens reaction time. Suppresses unnecessary distractions.”

Tim’s stomach churns. “Unnecessary distractions,” he echoes, voice tight. 

Damian’s expression flickers—just barely. But Tim knows him. He catches the slight shift in his breathing, the way his fingers flex against his knee.

Tim grips his wrist to keep his hands from shaking. He knows that they’ve been feeding him lies to keep him close, on a short leash. All his life, they have told him that there has been something fundamentally wrong with Damian. 

Because fuck. That’s the thing that gets him. Not the pain, not the fear— but the quiet, raw uncertainty. The idea that Damian has no way of knowing what’s his and what’s been given to him.

They put something in him. When that wasn’t enough—when his spirit refused to break, when his fire burned through every bruise and scar—they took his mind. 

They sifted through his memories like a thief pilfering gold, plucking away pieces of him that refused to conform. The softness. The laughter. The warmth. And when stripping him of himself still didn’t work, they replaced what was missing with something else—something hollow, something obedient.

But that wasn’t working either. Because Damian was fighting back every fucking day. 

They tried to make him their perfect weapon. A ghost in flesh. A soldier without a soul. But even now, even when they’ve twisted his thoughts and shackled his heart, Damian is still fighting. Every day, every second.

And yet, the tragedy isn’t in the battle—it’s in how well they’ve convinced him he isn’t losing.

If they commanded him to lay his head beneath the guillotine, he would do so with the quiet reverence of a knight kneeling before his king. He would press his cheek to the cold metal like it was a sacred whisper, a prayer to the very blade meant to sever him.

Because when the lie is all you’ve ever known, the executioner’s hand feels like a blessing—and the noose, a comforting embrace.

Tim exhales through his nose, forcing himself to stay steady. Later. He can freak out later. Right now, he has to be smart.

“What happens when you try to remove it?”

Damian’s shoulders lock. His fingers curl into fists. He doesn’t answer.

Tim swallows hard, throat dry. That’s answer enough.

“…You can feel it, can’t you?” he murmurs, carefully, quietly. “It’s not just a chip—it’s inside your head. Changing things.”

Damian doesn’t look at him. He stares at the floor, jaw tight. “I am aware of its presence,” he admits finally, voice too flat. Too controlled. “But it is necessary.”

Tim wants to scream. Wants to shake him and make him hear himself, make him understand that this is wrong. That the person who told him it was necessary was the same person who had been breaking him piece by piece.

But he doesn’t. Because if he does, Damian will retreat, and Tim will lose him all over again.

So instead, he forces a small huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, that’s bullshit,” he says, casually. Light. “And you know it.”

Damian’s head snaps up. His eyes narrow. “It—”

“It’s bullshit,” Tim says again, firmer now, but still careful. He shrugs. “You wanna know how I know?” Damian’s eyes flicker to the ground. Tim gestures at him. The silence stretches before them before Tim breaks through it. “You’re still talking to me.”

Tim leans forward slightly, voice dropping just enough. “If it was really working the way they wanted it to, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t care. You wouldn’t be sneaking into my cell, helping me, feeding me information. If it was really working, you’d be just like them.” He tilts his head. “But you’re not. Are you?”

Damian’s lips part slightly as if to argue. But no words come out. Tim lets that settle between them. Enables the silence to stretch. Let Damian think.

Then, softer, quieter: “We can get it out, Dami.”

Damian swallows, throat bobbing. His fingers flex again like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what . His breathing is just a little too uneven.

Tim watches him carefully, his own heart hammering in his chest.

Then—Damian looks at him. Really looks at him.

And says, voice barely above a whisper:

“…How?”

And Tim reaches forward, running a thumb over Damian’s curved cheek. And he doesn’t flinch this time – he intakes a breath, trembling under the warmth of his older brother’s skin, but he doesn’t flinch around Tim.

“I’m not sure. But, I need to look at it. Truly, actually look at it. Can…can you do that for me?” Tim asks hesitantly and Damian looks off into the distance. His eyes are unfocused but determined. Tim knows now not to follow his gaze – and instead waits for Damian to come back to him.

Finally, Damian nods, turning his back to Tim and shuddering when Tim’s gentle fingertips graze the back of his neck. He shudders when Damian inspects the scar on the base of his head – ugly and bruised like something was pulled out.

When Tim presses deeper, trying to see how it was inserted, medically or forcefully, Damian suddenly breaks away from Tim, gasping for breath that doesn’t seem to come fast enough. His breaths are fast and sharp, and his eyes dart around the room. He flings himself into the corner of the small, cramped cell, slamming his eyes shut and nails digging bloody crescents in the palms of his calloused hands.

And Tim’s heart breaks once more. He doesn’t move forward, doesn’t say a word. He just watches and tries not to let a sob work through his throat. Tim doesn’t want to be strong anymore. He doesn’t want to watch his little brother break anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother anymore.

He wants to go home. Tim just wants his Dad.

Tim exhales shakily, forcing himself to stay rooted in place. He wants to move—needs to—every instinct in him screaming to reach out, to fix it, fix it, fix it. But he can’t. Not yet.

Damian’s back is pressed against the cold stone, his breaths jagged, and uneven. He’s not here anymore—his body is, but his mind is somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere painful.

And Tim… Tim knows what that’s like.

So, instead of pushing, instead of speaking, instead of doing anything Damian isn’t ready for, Tim does the only thing he can.

He waits.

His hands twitch in his lap, aching to grab Damian’s, to pry open his fists before his nails cut any deeper into his skin. But Tim knows better than to force him. Knows what it’s like to feel trapped inside your head, fighting ghosts no one else can see.

So, he takes a slow breath. Makes a show of shifting back, sitting cross-legged like they’re just two brothers killing time, instead of captives suffocating in a place that wants them broken.

Then, softly, he starts talking.

“Y’know, Bruce has this old leather chair in his office,” Tim murmurs, voice even, grounding. “Looks like crap, honestly. Worn down from years of him sitting there doing paperwork. The edges are all frayed—Alfred’s been threatening to get rid of it for years .”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “But he won’t. Says it’s ‘broken in just right.’ I mean, I think his ass has basically fused the chair into the perfect fit.” Tim’s eyes flicker towards Damian, and he can almost see him come out again. He doesn’t know if Damian’s listening. But Tim keeps going.

“And Jason —man, he’s so weird about the kitchen. It’s his favorite place, right? Always makes pancakes at like, two in the morning for no reason. But he’s awful at organizing. Everything’s in the wrong place. He says it’s ‘organized chaos.’ Alfred says it’s a war crime.”

There’s no response, but Damian’s breaths are slowing, just a little.

Tim risks a glance. Damian hasn’t moved from the corner, but his fingers are looser now, his shoulders less rigid.

Good.

Tim lets the silence settle for a moment before continuing, voice even softer now.

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” he says. “You and me. We’re gonna get out of here. I promise.” A part of him knows it’s a lie. A part of him knows his chances of survival are in the hundred-tenths. But, Tim has survived against worse odds.

Damian’s hands twitch, fingers curling, uncurling. His throat bobs in a hard swallow.

Then, finally, finally, he lifts his head.

His eyes are still stormy, still so unsure, but they meet Tim’s.

“…You can look,” Damian murmurs, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.  Tim clenches his jaw, trying to keep his expression steady. Then, with all the gentleness he can muster, he nods. Carefully, Tim looks again – tugs at Damian’s shirt, and lets his finger trails the scar that stretches along his back.

“Tell me more. About what I missed,” Damian says softly, as Tim begins to inspect him. Tim steadies his breath.

“Do you remember your drawings?” Tim asks, and Damian stiffens a little. Tim never noticed the scar on the side of his ribcage. His stomach rolls a little, but he focuses on the cold air of the cell, the warmth beneath his fingertips. The fact he’s talking to a human being.

Damian shakes his head.

“When we’re out of here, we’ll learn to draw. Together.” Tim smiles, eyes crinkling at the idea. He lets the tears roll down his cheeks and he sniffles, pausing to swipe a hand at his face. Damian turns around, eyebrows furrowed and staring at Tim with something guarded. “Sorry, I– I don’t know why–”

And then, Damian reaches forward, clutching Tim’s hand, and squeezing.

Tim nearly chokes on a breath. Because Damian doesn’t do this.

Damian doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t ask for comfort, doesn’t offer it in return—not like this, not in a way that’s soft and unguarded and so incredibly human.

But right now, Damian’s small, calloused fingers are wrapped around Tim’s hand, squeezing—not hard, not like a demand, but like he’s testing something. Like he’s making sure Tim is real.

Tim’s breath shudders in his chest. Damian’s gaze flickers downward, focusing on the point where their hands meet, like he’s memorizing the feeling.

“…We will?” Damian asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Tim nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah. We will.” He squeezes Damian’s hand back, grounding both of them. “I’ll teach you all the annoying art nerd stuff. Shading, color theory, even shit with cameras. You’ll be unstoppable.”

Damian huffs, a ghost of amusement, but his fingers twitch like he’s holding onto the words, clinging to them.

Tim takes a steadying breath and shifts slightly, turning Damian’s back toward him again. His hands move carefully, tracing the scar with the lightest touch, feeling the uneven ridges of what shouldn’t be there.

This—this thing in Damian’s head, it’s taking from him. Taking his memories, taking his sense of self, making him doubt what’s real and what’s been twisted to fit the League’s design.

Tim won’t let it take any more.

M's fingers tremble where they rest against Damian’s scar. He keeps his breathing steady, but his mind is racing. He knows now—knows what they did to him, how deep it goes. And yet, Damian is still here. Still fighting. Still gripping Tim’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

He tightens his grip just a fraction. Then, ever so gently, he pulls Damian closer.

“Do you trust me?” Tim whispers, his breath warm against Damian’s temple.

Damian hesitates. Just for a moment.

Tim can feel it—the battle warring inside of him, the instincts drilled into his bones fighting against something softer, something fragile. But then, slowly, Damian’s fingers twitch in his grip. His throat bobs in a hard swallow.

He doesn’t nod.

But he doesn’t shake his head, either.

And Tim knows that counts for something.

He exhales slowly, pressing their foreheads together for just a second. A grounding touch. Then, carefully, he pulls back.

“Alright,” Tim murmurs. “Here’s how we’re gonna do this.”

The arena is burning.

Not completely—just enough. Just enough for the smoke to choke the air, for the flames to lick at the edges of the old stone walls, for the League to scatter, barking orders in sharp, furious bursts. Just enough for chaos.

But not enough for them to escape.

Not yet.

Tim and Damian move like shadows through the labyrinthine halls, their breaths ragged, their bodies battered. Tim’s ribs feel like they’ve been cracked open, a deep, searing pain radiating with every step. Blood trickles down the side of his face, matting his hair. Damian isn’t faring much better—his knuckles are raw, a fresh cut above his brow leaking into his eye, his breathing heavy with exertion.

But they’re alive.

For now.

Tim grabs Damian’s wrist and pulls him down a side corridor just as more assassins rush past, their voices sharp and urgent. The plan had worked, technically. They had set the fire, they had drawn attention, they had made a mess. But they hadn’t made it out.

And now they’re running.

The stone beneath their feet shifts, cracks, and groans with the weight of their pursuit. They hear the footfalls echoing behind them, distant at first but growing closer. Too close. Tim knows they can’t outrun them forever—not like this. Not with the damage they’ve taken. His side flares with pain, and Damian’s breath is already starting to catch.

They turn another corner, nearly crashing into the walls as they press themselves into the shadows. Tim’s heart hammers in his chest, his hands slick with blood as they grab the edge of the stone for balance. A fraction of a second to breathe, to listen—

A flash of movement at the far end of the corridor.

Damian reacts first, dragging Tim along as they rush down the next hall, harder, faster. The sound of blades slicing through the air follows them, close enough that Tim can feel the heat of the wind in their wake. He doesn’t look back. He can’t afford to.

It feels like they’re running in circles, the halls twisting in on themselves, the arena vast and unknowable, a maze of shadows and flickering light. The flames dance just out of sight, but the heat is unbearable. Sweat stings in Tim’s eyes, and his ribs scream with every breath. His vision is swimming, edges blurring in and out, but he doesn’t stop.

Damian is still with him.

He has to be.

Another turn, a narrow gap between crumbling stone walls, and Tim feels his foot catch, his ankle twisting painfully. A shout of pain escapes him, but he ignores it, yanking himself back up and pushing forward, pulling Damian with him.

More voices.

This time, they’re not shouting orders. They’re calling for them. They know. They’re hunting.

Damian’s eyes meet his, a flash of silent understanding passing between them. They’re no longer just running—they’re fleeing .

A sharp turn, a door slams open, and they spill into a large chamber. The space is open, and exposed, and Tim knows it’s a dead end the moment they enter.

His breath catches, panic creeping up his spine, but before he can think, Damian is already moving. They drop, sliding along the stone floor. Their feet barely make a sound.

Another round of footsteps. More assassins. More noise.

Tim can barely hear them over the roaring of the flames now licking at the walls, the smoke thickening, filling the space with a haze that makes it hard to see or think. The scent of burning stone and wood chokes his lungs. He’s coughing, his throat raw, but his eyes are locked on Damian, watching every move.

They have to keep moving.

Another flicker of movement. A shadow—one of the assassins.

Tim presses himself against the cold stone, barely breathing as they slip into a small alcove. The heat is unbearable, but it’s quieter now.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then—

A crash.

A door somewhere behind them shatters.

The arena is no longer just burning. It’s collapsing. And so are they.

Tim’s voice was low and tight with urgency. “We need to move . Now.”

Damian doesn’t wait for another word. He’s up and running again, Tim’s hand clutching his wrist as they race down yet another narrow corridor. It’s just instinct now. There’s no strategy, no plan. Just survival.

And they’re still not free.

The walls shake, the ground trembles beneath their feet, and the air is thick with smoke and the distinct iron of blood. Tim can hear them now—shouting, calling, angry voices, close and getting closer. He doesn’t have to look back to know they’re being hunted.

They round another corner, stumbling as the air pressure shifts—something’s coming down. The ceiling cracks above them, debris falling in showers of stone and dust.

Tim reaches for Damian, but the younger boy is already moving, dodging the wreckage, pulling Tim along. His hand is sticky with blood, but he doesn’t stop.

The sounds of pursuit grow louder. The ringing in Tim’s ears hasn’t stopped, not since that Guard caught them in the last room. Tim has lost track of where they’ve been a million times, but Damian navigates the walls and corridors with ease. He knows where to pause, where the guards are normally stationed, and where the medical supplies are.

It kills Tim to know that he’s had to stumble through these walls, injured, and half-dead numerous times, enough times for Damian to memorize every piece of material, gauze, and half-rusted abandoned dagger.

Tim looks at Damian, and for the first time, he sees fear in his eyes. Not the sharp, battle-honed awareness of a soldier, not the cold calculation of an assassin—but something raw, something trembling at the edges.

Damian is defying everything he has ever known. He is tearing himself from the foundation of his existence, turning his back on a world that forged him in blood and obedience. He is unraveling, piece by piece, unmaking himself with every step he takes away from the shadows that raised him.

And he’s doing it for Tim .

Because Tim had offered him something fragile in a place built on brutality—an ounce of kindness, something soft and human, something gentle in the heart of an inferno. And somehow, impossibly, Damian had chosen that .

Had chosen him .

And now, his world is burning.

And still—he does not let go.

Tim sat on the cold stone floor, his back pressed against the wall as he let out a slow, measured breath. His body ached, sharp stings and deep bruises blooming beneath the torn fabric. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to flex his fingers.

Damian knelt in front of him, quiet, methodical as he worked to clean the blood from Tim’s face. His movements were gentle and careful, but there was a tension in his shoulders, something rigid and uncertain in the way he pressed a damp cloth against a fresh wound.

Tim watched him through half-lidded eyes, exhaustion pressing down on his bones.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Tim huffed a breath, lips quirking up just slightly. “No kidding.”

Damian frowned, gaze flickering to the bruises forming along Tim’s ribs. “That was my punishment. Not yours.”

Tim let his head fall back against the wall, inhaling slowly. “Yeah, well. I figured you’ve had enough.”

Damian’s hands stilled. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then—

“Why?” His voice was quiet. Almost hesitant. Tim opened his eyes, meeting Damian’s gaze.

He looked confused. Genuinely confused. As if he couldn’t understand why anyone would take the fall for him. Like the concept itself was foreign. “It was… illogical,” Damian said slowly as if testing the words in his mouth. “I am beneath you. I am not a person.”

Tim felt something in his chest twist painfully. “Hey,” he murmured, voice softer now. He reached out, resting a hand lightly on Damian’s wrist. The kid flinched but didn’t pull away.

“You’re my brother.” Damian’s breath hitched.

His eyes widened, something fragile flashing across his face before he shut it down, expression smoothing into something unreadable. But his hands shook. Tim squeezed his wrist gently. 

“You hear me?” Damian swallowed, gaze dropping to where Tim’s fingers still rested against his skin.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly—

He nodded. Tim let out a small breath, watching as Damian resumed his work, though his hands were noticeably less steady.

The cloth swiped carefully over Tim’s split lip, dabbing away dried blood with a hesitance that hadn’t been there before. Damian was thinking. Hard.

Tim knew that look—the furrowed brow, the tight set of his mouth. His mind was running a mile a minute, probably cycling through every rule, every lesson beaten into him since birth. Trying to make sense of something that shouldn’t need explaining.

Tim didn’t rush him. He just sat there, letting the silence stretch between them, waiting. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Damian spoke.

“You shouldn’t be my brother.” His voice was quiet, but there was something raw beneath it. “You… shouldn’t want to be.”

Tim exhaled, head tilting slightly. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Damian hesitated. “Because… I am weak.” He swallowed. “And weakness is disposable.” Tim’s stomach twisted. Of course they told him that. Of course that was what they carved into his brain, beat into his skin.

“Damian.” Tim’s voice was steady, firm. “You’re not disposable. You never were.”

Damian’s eyes darted to his, sharp and searching like he was waiting for the lie to reveal itself. Like he was waiting for Tim to take it back.

Tim didn’t.

“You’re my brother,” he repeated, slow and deliberate. “That’s not something you have to earn. It’s just true. ”

Damian's fingers tightened around the bloodied cloth in his hand. His expression remained neutral—carefully schooled into something blank—but Tim could see it. The tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, the way his gaze flickered just slightly before settling on the floor.

He was hesitating.

Tim waited, patient, letting the silence stretch between them. He knew Damian would speak when he was ready.

They find solace in an abandoned wing of the base. It smells of piss and vomit, blood, and stale air, but it’s tranquil compared to the main area of the den, swarming with assassins and guards who were probably fantasizing about capturing them. Damian and Tim had to both push against the old stone, arms trembling from the force alone.

“How do you know about this?” Tim asks, leaning against the wall and tightening the gauze around his knuckles. They’re so close. Tim can taste freedom – or at least, glance at the mirage of it.

He knows they don’t have much time. But, it’s nice to just rest for a bit.

“One of my punishments was here,” Damian says, looking off to the side as his gaze flickers over to an abandoned pair of iron shackles. Tim furrows his eyebrows and clenches his fist.

“What…what happened?” Tim asks, already feeling something churn in his stomach.

“Isolation,” Damian says simply, the casualness in his voice twisting Tim’s stomach more. It’s so casual as if Damian were simply discussing the morning weather. As if he forgets that he’s a child, and that, no, this is not something fucking normal.

“Dami–”

There are noises– shouts. Tim snaps his mouth shut, his breath catching as he locks eyes with Damian. The moment of fragile stillness shatters like glass.

The shouts are distant but closing in, bouncing off the stone walls, growing sharper. Orders barked in a language Tim barely understands. The League is regrouping, tightening its grip. Their moment of rest is over.

Damian’s gaze hardens, shifting back to the iron shackles bolted into the wall. There’s no time for this—not for ghosts, not for the past, not for the way Tim's heart clenches at the thought of Damian, younger and smaller, locked away in the dark. He can't dwell on it. Not when they’re about to be dragged back into their hell.

Tim pushes off the wall, forcing his limbs to cooperate. Every muscle screams in protest, but he moves anyway. “We need to go.”

Damian doesn’t argue. He’s already moving, already calculating, slipping back into the role he was molded into since birth. A perfect weapon. A survivor. But then, for just a second, he hesitates—his fingers brushing against the cold metal of those shackles.

Tim tugs at his shoulder. “Don’t.” Damian doesn’t respond, just exhales sharply before nodding. The moment is gone.

The footsteps grow louder. Shadows flicker at the entrance of the corridor. And then they’re running.

They cling to the shadows like mice, using every opportunity to catch their breath, stitch their wounds, or drink from the small sac of water from Damian’s uniform. He had insisted on wearing his League Uniform – even if the sight of it made Tim’s stomach churn in uneasy knots.

It was practical, Damian had argued. Familiar. It let him move like he was meant to move, let him fight like he was trained to fight.

But now, that same uniform feels like a leash. Like a hand wrapped around his throat, pulling tighter with every second they remain free.

At first, it’s just a dull ache behind Damian’s eyes. A small pressure, like the onset of a migraine, something he pushes past as easily as breathing. But then it spikes—sharp, electric pain splintering through his skull, like white-hot needles digging into the base of his brain. His vision swims. The world tilts.

Damian grits his teeth and stumbles.

Tim catches his arm before he can fall. “Hey—” His voice is sharp with alarm. “What’s wrong?”

Damian’s breath comes in ragged pants. His pupils are blown wide, his fingers twitching at his sides like they’re no longer his own.

The League.

They’re changing something. Rewriting something.

Damian presses a hand to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of searing pain arcs through his skull. His knees buckle, and Tim has to shift to keep him upright.

“Damian?” Tim’s voice is urgent now, edged with something dangerously close to fear. “Talk to me—what’s happening?”

“They’re—” Damian’s throat tightens around the words. His mind is glitching, slipping, rebooting. His muscles lock up – a warning. A punishment. A leash tightening around his brainstem. “—adjusting…something.”

Tim stiffens. His grip tightens around Damian’s arm.

Of course.

Of course, the League wouldn’t let them go without a failsafe. Of course, they had a way to drag Damian back, even from across the abyss.

Damian clenches his jaw, fighting through the blinding agony. He can’t stop moving. He can’t stop running.

Because the moment he stops—

The moment they catch him—

He won’t be himself anymore.

Damian manages to go another hundred steps before he falls to his feet, biting back a cry as his hands clutch uselessly at his head. Tim flies forward, grabbing a dagger from his side and shoving it into Damian’s mouth. Damian bites down on it, and Tim drags him up – Damian is fully leaning on Tim’s body.

They stumble through the hallways, and Tim knows that they’re close. Their plan was to use the labyrinthic halls of the League to their advantage. To have the League be spread out, anxious, and desperate.

Tim had hoped that he had bought them time, enough time for them to only realize that Damian was working with Tim in the last very moments. But, of course, they wouldn’t go long without checking on their pet project.

To only realize that he had escaped from their clutches once again.

Damian turns his head towards Tim’s shoulder, muffling a cry into the soft fabric of Tim’s clothing. They had swiped some material and clothing from the last guard they had knocked unconscious, and it provided some warmth in the cold, arid desert air. 

Tim tightens his grip on Damian, half-dragging, half-carrying him through the winding halls. His body protests every movement—his ribs scream, his legs threaten to buckle—but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

Not when the League is hunting them. Not when Damian is barely holding himself together.

Damian’s breath is hot against his shoulder, coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His body trembles violently, muscles spasming with every fresh jolt of pain that courses through him. Tim doesn’t know what they’re doing to him—whether they’re trying to subdue him, override him, or break him entirely—but he knows they don’t have much time.

The dagger in Damian’s mouth muffles his cries, but Tim can still feel them—ragged, shuddering gasps against his collarbone. His heart clenches painfully.

Just a little farther.

They round another corner, moving deeper into the abandoned wing of the fortress. The halls are tighter here, the air thick with dust and decay. Old torches flicker weakly in their sconces, casting warped shadows along the walls.

They’re close.

Tim knows it. Feels it in the frantic rhythm of his pulse, in the desperate burn of his lungs.

Damian shifts against him, his breath stuttering as another wave of agony rips through him. Tim feels his body tense, his nails digging into Tim’s side as he fights against it.

“Almost there,” Tim murmurs, voice low and steady. A promise. A prayer. “Just hold on.”

Damian makes a noise, something caught between a grunt and a whimper. Tim doesn’t know if it’s in acknowledgment or just another attempt to bite down the pain.

The halls stretch endlessly before them, twisting and turning in ways that no sane architect would have ever designed. 

And if they can just make it past this next passage—

A sound cuts through the stale air.

Footsteps.

Fast. Heavy.

Closing in.

Tim swears under his breath.

They’ve run out of time.

The lightbulb between them flickers, casting long shadows across the cracked stone floor. It’s one of the only sources of light in the cell, barely enough to illuminate the crude supplies they’ve scavenged. A handful of bandages. A stolen knife. A waterskin. Nowhere near enough.

Tim twists the scalpel between his fingers, the dim glow catching on the blade. It’s sharp, sharper than he’d like for this, but it’s the best they’ve got. And even then—

“This isn’t going to work.”

His voice is steady and matter-of-fact, but the words hang heavy between them. Damian, crouched across from him, stiffens.

“We don’t have the right tools,” Tim continues, voice low. “No anesthesia, no cauterization, no guarantee that I won’t sever something important. The chip’s wired into your nervous system, and I can’t risk—” He stops himself before he can say paralysis. Before he can say brain damage.

Damian already knows. He isn’t stupid.

Still, his fingers twitch, curling into his palms. His eyes flicker—not just disappointment, but something harder. Something Tim recognizes in himself.

It’s not fear. Not exactly.

It’s resignation.

Damian exhales slowly, steadying himself before speaking. “…Then we shall leave it.”

Tim blinks, caught off guard. “…What?”

Damian shifts, sitting cross-legged, pressing his knuckles against the floor like he’s grounding himself. “We leave it,” he repeats. “It is not worth the effort of extraction, not when your chances of escape are slimming.”

“And when they use it against you?” Tim’s voice is quieter now, edged with something tired, something raw.

Damian’s lips press into a thin line. For a second, just a second, uncertainty flickers across his face. Not much, but enough.

“I will endure,” he says finally.

The words are clipped and, precise. Like something recited. Like something drilled into him.

Tim wants to say that he shouldn’t have to endure. That it isn’t fair. No kid should have to decide this, shouldn’t have to weigh freedom against the possibility of being puppeted like a marionette. But this isn’t about what should be fair.

Damian has lived his entire life in a warzone. This is just another battlefield. Tim rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “It’s a bad idea.”

Damian shakes his head, shifting so his hands rest against his knees. “Yet, there is no other choice.” The words land like stones in the silence—heavy, immovable. There’s no anger in his voice, no defiance. Just certainty. 

The quiet resignation of someone who has long since made peace with his undoing.

Tim wonders how many times Damian has stood at death’s doorstep, how many times he has felt its breath at his nape. How often he has peered over the edge, not with fear, but with familiarity—until the abyss was no longer a threat, just a promise waiting to be kept.

Would they even let him die? Or would they just – 

Tim exhales, gripping against the handle of the scalpel with all the force he can muster. He can’t get lost in hypotheticals, in fantasies that may not come to fruition.

Because right now, he’s in the small cell with his younger brother. Planning an escape. Tim focuses on Damian. The set of his shoulders. The way his fingers clench against the fabric of his uniform. 

Tim reaches forward, fingers ghosting over Damian’s wrist, just barely brushing against the bruised skin there.

Damian doesn’t pull away.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head just enough so that his hair falls over his eyes. “The chip stays,” he murmurs, quieter now. “For now.”

Tim works in silence, hands steady as he sorts through the meager supplies they’ve managed to scavenge. Torn cloth for bandages. A stolen waterskin, barely half full. Two knives—one clean, one still sticky with blood.

It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.

But it has to be.

Across from him, Damian sits rigid, his back straight, his chin lifted with the same soldier-like precision that had been beaten into him since birth. The candle between them flickers, casting jagged shadows along the cracked walls.

“The Eastern corridors have the fewest guards at night,” Damian says, voice low, calculated. “Most rotations shift towards the main compound, as per protocol. The outer halls will be sparse, but the central atrium is unavoidable. We’ll need a distraction.”

Tim knots a strip of cloth, securing it around the meager pack they’ve assembled. He nods, absorbing the information, but his mind isn’t on guard rotations. Not really.

Not when Damian is sitting there, calmly betraying everything he’s ever known. Not when Tim knows exactly what this means. What it costs.

Damian moves with military efficiency, gesturing with a gloved hand as he continues. “There is a supply cache near the west annex. Rations, weaponry. If we make it that far, we can—”

“You’re risking everything,” Tim says suddenly.

Damian blinks, caught off guard by the interruption. His expression barely shifts, but Tim sees the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten just slightly where they rest against his knee.

He says nothing.

So Tim keeps going.

“You had a way out,” he murmurs. “You could’ve waited. You could’ve played along until the right moment. But you didn’t.” His hands curl around the bandages in his lap, the fabric rough beneath his fingertips. “You’re throwing all of it away.”

Damian exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “I made my choice.”

Tim’s throat tightens.

Damian doesn’t hesitate anymore, not when it matters. Not when it’s life or death. But there’s something else there, buried beneath the soldier-like detachment.

A flicker of something raw. Something reluctant.

“You were kind.” Damian’s voice is quieter this time like he’s testing the weight of the words on his tongue. He doesn’t look at Tim when he says it—his gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, unfocused as if he’s seeing something Tim can’t. “You were patient. You’re not like—like my memories.” His fingers twitch against his knee, a small, barely-there motion, but Tim catches it. A tell. A hesitation.

Damian swallows, then finally lifts his gaze, meeting Tim’s with an intensity that makes his breath hitch. “You were kind,” he repeats, firmer this time, as if solidifying the thought, anchoring himself to it. Like he needs to hear it, needs to make sure it’s real.

Tim’s throat goes dry. He wants to say something, anything, but the words tangle up inside him, heavy and useless. He feels something shift between them, something fragile yet undeniable.

Damian shouldn’t trust him—not this quickly, not this easily. Not after a lifetime spent in shadows, where kindness was a foreign thing, where patience was a weakness to be beaten out of him. And yet, here he is, choosing to believe in Tim. Choosing to let go of everything drilled into him since birth.

And all because Tim had been kind.

Tim exhales sharply, feeling something sink in his stomach like a small stone plunging into the depths of the sea. This is more than trust—it’s a rejection of everything Damian has ever known. It’s a quiet rebellion against a past that was carved into his bones.

All because he met someone who didn’t hurt him right away.

And God, that shouldn’t be enough to change a person. It shouldn’t be enough to unmake years of conditioning. It shouldn’t be able to rewrite tangled memories. But Damian is here, in front of him, choosing something different. Choosing Tim.

Tim forces down the lump in his throat. “I didn’t do anything special,” he says, voice rough.

Damian’s lips press into a thin line. “You didn’t have to.”

Then, just as quickly, the moment passes. Damian straightens, shaking off whatever lingering hesitations might’ve been creeping in.

“There are three exits,” he continues, all business again. “Two of them will be inaccessible by now.” He gestures towards the cracked map Tim had sketched out in the dirt. “We take this one.”

Tim watches him carefully, watches the way Damian speaks in precise, clipped sentences, focusing on strategy instead of why he’s doing this. Instead of what it means. Instead of who he’s doing this for.

And all Tim can think about is how much it took to get here. How Damian is fighting against a lifetime of conditioning, of orders, of control—

For him.

Chapter Text

Hope is a fickle little thing – a dove’s feathers reflecting light in the darkness which looms to swallow one whole—a droplet of water in the infinite mounds of sand and dry air. A spark in the forest in which the only voice to reply is the echo of one’s voice.

Damian never cared to dream. Never dared to.

Hope was a cruel thing, fickle and fleeting—a moth drawn to the flame, knowing full well it would burn. To hope meant to open up the delicate creature of his heart, to bare its tender throat to the world, knowing it would only be crushed beneath an uncaring hand. To hope was to set himself up for heartbreak. And Damian had already had his fill.

He had watched softness turn to stone, curled fingers shift into tightened fists. Had seen warm laughter dissolve into silence, into bruised skin, and whispered apologies that never meant anything. He had learned, early on, that love came with conditions. That kindness had an expiration date.

Damian had grown tired of entertaining the prospect of unconditional love.

And yet…

He watches Tim sleep – the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath his clothing, pressed into the corner of the wall, clinging to the fabric blanket. He was supposed to leave hours ago, after he stitched up Tim’s back, and after he fell asleep.

But he doesn’t go.

Damian lingers, staring at the way the dim light casts shadows across Tim’s face, at the furrow in his brow even in sleep, as if even now his mind refuses to rest. Tim is all sharp edges and exhausted, yet there’s something impossibly steady about him—something that didn’t recoil when Damian was at his worst, something that didn’t falter in the face of all the blood and ruin Damian carries like a second skin.

A foolish part of Damian wants to reach out, to press two fingers against the pulse at Tim’s wrist just to feel it beat, to reassure himself that Tim is here, still breathing, still alive. That all of this—this fragile, desperate thing they’re clinging to—isn’t just another mirage.

It’s just another image that is there to remind Damian of his own mistakes – to retrace the steps of a dance he’s long since grown tired of. 

Hope is fickle. And yet, it is here. Nestled between the weight of his exhaustion and the quiet of the room. Perched in the steady rhythm of Tim’s breath.

Damian should leave. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He finds himself tracing the floor, watching the shadows twist and churn when the wind gently blows against the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Damian already knows there’s someone else in the room when the pain begins near his head’s temple – a press, like someone’s sitting on the bed when he’s underneath the covers.

“He’s not going to leave you,” Todd says, soft and gentle. Damian tries not to let the relief show on his shoulders – that Todd is nice today.

Tim has been trying—trying so hard—to help untangle the mess of wires in his head, to sort truth from fiction, reality from illusion. But Damian is spinning, stumbling through a maze of fractured memories where colors bleed together and the ground shifts beneath his feet. One wrong step, and he’ll fall straight through.

Tim tells him that his family is kind. That they are good. That they love him.

Damian isn’t so sure.

He remembers hands gripping too tight, a voice like honeyed poison whispering that this was for his good. He remembers soft smiles with sharp edges, the way kindness was a blade disguised as an open palm. He remembers Tim’s face, but not like it is now—he remembers it twisted, cruel, eyes glinting with something unreadable as he spoke in careful, measured tones, telling Damian what to do, what to think, what to be.

But then there is this Tim—the real Tim. The one who looks at him with something like worry instead of control. The one who never raises his hand and never twists the knife. The one who touches Damian’s shoulder so gently it doesn’t even feel real.

And Damian doesn’t know what to do with that.

Because if Tim can be kind—if Tim is not the specter in his mind, the ghost that looms over every twisted memory—then what else has been a lie?

“Hey, you know that, right?” Todd comes closer, kneeling in front of Damian – his icy blue eyes seem to stare straight into Damian’s core, unrelenting. He’s stubborn.

His voice breaks through the fog in Damian’s mind – startling sharp in a world blurry with unknowns.

Damian shakes his head, drawing his knees tighter to his chest. His fingers ghost over the scabs lining his arm before he starts to pick at them—peeling, just enough to feel the sting, just enough to remind himself that he’s here, that he’s real. The pain is sharp, and grounding.

Familiar .

"Hey," Todd’s voice cuts through the haze, steady but laced with something gentler, something almost… concerned. "That’s not good for you."

Damian doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop.

"Focus on me," Todd says, softer this time. "Just try that."

And then he smiles.

It’s real. So painfully real that it tightens something in Damian’s chest, that it threatens to knock the breath from his lungs. Because Todd isn’t laughing at him, isn’t ridiculing him for curling in on himself like a wounded thing. He’s just… there. Unwavering. Present.

He’s seen this smile before. Or maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s only imagined it, conjured it up in the empty spaces between bruises and sharp words and nights spent curled in the dark. He has made up so many scenarios of being saved, of warmth and understanding, of hands that don’t strike but soothe. Of soft smiles and the smell of pancakes and fingers ruffling his hair like he’s something precious. Like he’s wanted.

It’s hard to tell where fiction ends and reality begins.

Damian hasn’t told Tim about Todd. But, he doesn’t want to – wants to think about the possibility that all his warmth, kindness, and sometimes love is just the result of Damian’s fractured mind. 

But right now, Todd is warm, and real, and here. Kneeling before him, unwavering, gaze locked onto Damian’s as if he sees him—truly sees him.

And Damian wants to believe. Even if it’s just for a moment.

So, he exhales—a slow, shuddering breath—and forces himself to focus. Forces himself to pull himself from the riptide of his mind, to latch onto the hazy image of Todd kneeling before him. Todd’s image seems to flicker – like a candlelight fighting against a gust of wind.

Curly black hair, a tanned face dusted with freckles, and a smile that feels like something almost tangible, something half-remembered—like board game nights he’s never had, regret thick as smoke, cheesy snacks on fingertips, and raw, unfiltered anger that burns just as much as it comforts.

“How do you know?” Damian whispers, his voice small, like the words are fragile things that might shatter if spoken too loudly. He risks a glance up, meeting Todd’s eyes, searching for something solid, something certain. But Todd only watches him, head tilting, a quiet understanding settling in the space between them. Damian doesn’t elaborate—he never needs to with Todd.

That’s the magic of insanity.

One’s mind already knows itself well enough. Knows how to fill in the blanks, and how to smooth over the cracks with half-truths and borrowed memories. It stitches together fractured pieces, overlapping jagged edges until they form something that almost makes sense.

Even when you’re slipping, even when reality bends and twists like light refracting through broken glass—each reflection still feels real. Each version of the truth still fits, even if the pieces don’t align the way they should.

Todd’s smile flickers, and trembles at the edges like he’s struggling to stay steady. “You don’t,” he says, quiet but firm. “But if you start acting like people are gonna leave at any moment… you’re gonna push ‘em away. You’ll push away the people who would have stayed anyways.”

Damian hiccups. His throat is tight, his hands fists at his sides. He isn’t crying. He isn’t. But his breath stutters, and his vision blurs, and something inside him feels like it’s coming undone.

His gaze flickers to Tim’s battered face. The split lip, the bruises that bloom across his skin like wilted flowers, the old scars that trace his arms in thin, pale lines. Damian never noticed his ears were pierced. A tiny, insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things, but it hits him anyway.

“I wish…” His voice breaks. He swallows, and tries again. “I wish you were real.”

He’s lost count of how many times he’s told Todd this—how many times he’s whispered it into the empty spaces of his mind, desperate for the echo to sound like truth. Even when Todd is cruel, when his voice drips with venom, when he leans in close and murmurs things that twist like a knife between Damian’s ribs, Damian still wants.

Because even through all the bad, even through the shadows Todd casts over his mind, there are moments—small, fleeting, fragile—where he is kind. Where his smile is soft, where his voice is gentle. And for Damian, that sliver of light is enough.

And Todd laughs. A quiet, knowing thing. A sound both gentle and aching, like he’s heard this before. Like he already knows how the story ends.

They find refuge in a narrow alcove, barely more than a shadowed dent in the corridor wall. Damian resists—pushing weakly at Tim’s shoulders, his trembling fingers curling into fists before going slack. But in the end, he stops fighting.

His breaths come in ragged gasps, too fast, too sharp. “Not real, not real… not real,” he mutters, over and over, the words spilling out like blood from an open wound. Tim exhales, pressing his back against the cold stone, trying to shove down the panic rising in his chest. He needs a plan, a strategy—some kind of tether to reality in this endless, suffocating labyrinth.

But his mind offers nothing.

Instead, he listens—straining to catch the telltale rhythm of hurried footsteps, the hiss of a blade slipping free from its sheath. He wants to stay. Wants to let Damian catch his breath, wants to press a water bottle into his shaking hands, wants—more than anything—to figure out how to tear that damn chip out of Damian’s skull before it’s too late.

But they don’t have time.

“C’mon, bud,” Tim murmurs, gripping Damian’s arm and hauling him to his feet.

For a moment, something in Damian breaks. His body tenses, muscles coiling tight—then he moves. The dagger flashes between them, a silver blur in the dim light. Tim barely manages to twist out of the way before it embeds itself in the stone just behind his head.

Damian inhales sharply, his entire frame locking up as his eyes clear—like something had taken hold of him and just as quickly let go. His voice is hoarse, edged with horror. “I—I’m sorry. I thought—”

“No need.” Tim shakes his head, forcing a smirk he doesn’t quite feel. “Wouldn’t be the first time, anyway.”

Damian hesitates, his brows knitting together as if he’s trying to push back some unseen force, some whisper only he can hear. But then he swallows hard and follows, his movements stiff and uncertain.

They have to keep moving.

In a blink, they crash headlong into a cluster of guards. There’s no time to think, no space for hesitation—only instinct.

Tim moves without thought, his body a weapon honed by muscle memory and desperation. A dagger finds its way into his palm, and before he fully registers the movement, it's buried in someone’s shoulder. A cry rings out, barely heard over the chaos. Another enemy lunges, and Tim pivots, knocking their legs out from under them.

Blood splatters warm against his cheek. He wipes it away, more out of reflex than disgust.

Even as exhaustion drags at his limbs like an anchor, he lets anger take the wheel. It sharpens his movements and guides his arm in a vicious arc, the hilt of his blade driving into a solar plexus. A guard stumbles back, choking on their breath, but Tim is already onto the next.

He feeds the anger. Reaches for it like a gun clip, and reloads it into his system over and over again. It drives his fists into noses, his knuckles splitting against bone. The air is thick with the wet crunch of breaking bodies, and the sharp gasps of the fallen.

And then—

It hits him.

Nausea. The way his stomach twists at the coppery scent clogging his throat, at the weight of bodies crumpled at his feet. His breath is uneven. His hands, steady only moments before, tremble.

But there’s no time for that.

He swallows it down and steels himself. And then he’s turning—searching for Damian, making sure he’s still standing. Making sure they’re both still alive.

Tim spots Damain looking – no, standing over a guard, breath coming fast and pupils dilated to tiny green dots. Tim recognizes the look on Damian’s face as something much deeper than rage, than anger. It’s a mix of retribution, of revenge.

But the guard isn’t done yet – her face is bruised and battered, and Tim spots a nasty gash that is leaking blood at a startlingly fast rate. All Tim can focus on is her words – quick and full of disgust. “Kill me, little demon. Just like you have been commanded to – by your new owner.” 

She smiles, bloody and taunting, and something in Damian’s face cracks . It’s not anger, not exactly. It’s something deeper, something more insidious—something carved into his bones long before Tim ever met him.

Tim knows that look. Knows what happens when someone corners a wounded animal and dares it to bite. The dagger rises.

Tim moves—

But before he can even open his mouth before he can reach for him, Damian shifts. His boot slams against the woman’s face, and she slumps, unconscious. Tim exhales sharply, pulse thrumming against his throat.

Damian doesn't look at the body, doesn’t spare it another glance. He just lifts his gaze, eyes shadowed and unreadable, and walks forward—pushing past Tim as if nothing happened.

Tim doesn’t stop him. He just turns and falls into step beside him.

There’s no time to process this. No time to say anything.

They keep moving.

Damian finds it hard to hold on.

The world tilts, no – shifts under his feet like sand slipping through his fingers. He fights to keep his gaze fixed on Tim, on the blur of black ahead of him, twisting and turning through the labyrinthine halls as if the path was carved into his bones. As if he was made for this.

Damian had only shown him the map once—scrawled in blood on the cold stone floor of Tim’s cell, lines uneven and smudged—but Tim moves like he’s memorized it down to every last crack in the walls. He moves like he knows exactly where to go.

And Damian—Damian just has to follow .

But his mind betrays him. The whispers claw at his ears, slithering through his skull, twisting Tim’s shape into something else . He blinks, and for a second, Tim isn’t running—he’s turning, twisting back toward him, eyes burning with something sharp, something cruel. A fist swings out. A dagger flashes.

Damian flinches.

Then Tim is back, sprinting forward like nothing ever happened.

Damian swallows down the bile rising in his throat, and fights against the ghosts clawing at his ankles—hands that should be long dead, fingers wrapping around his limbs, dragging him down, down, down.

He can’t be a burden. He won’t . He has to be strong. Has to be perfect .

So why is he struggling? Why do his knees threaten to buckle with every step? Why is he failing ?

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

His last mission—he should’ve completed it with precision, with ease, the way he had been trained. It was simple. One target. One clean kill. The son of an illustrious billionaire whose weapons threatened to loosen the League’s grip. A single strike to end a single life.

But the boy’s eyes—green. His hair was dark and curling at the edges. His body was broad and tall. Familiar in a way that made something in Damian stutter .

He hesitated.

His blade missed its mark by one centimeter.

Now, running, breath sharp and uneven, Damian wonders if he’s still missing if he’s still hesitating—if the ghosts of his past are still dragging him down, holding him back.

If he’ll ever outrun them.

Damian almost stumbles right into Tim, when he suddenly stops. The teenager brings a finger to his lips, pressing into the stone as Damian cranes his head towards where he’s looking.

One of the exits – swarming with Guards, and blocked. They know. But Damian knows that they accounted for this.

They accounted for this.

Damian watches Tim, his every movement sharp and deliberate despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. There’s no hesitation in Tim’s eyes—just that same cold, calculating focus that Damian knows so well. Tim always has a plan. He always knows what comes next, and Damian is only left to follow.

Tim’s lips part in a barely audible whisper, too soft to be heard over the pounding of their hearts and the rush of adrenaline, but it reaches Damian’s ears with crystal clarity. “We hit them fast. No hesitation. If we break left, there’s cover in the alley. Once we’re past that wall, we’re—”

Free.

Tim doesn’t need to say it, because Damian hears it anyway. The word hangs in the air between them like an impossible dream, a glimmering thread of hope that feels more fragile than a spider’s web, yet sharp enough to cut through the darkness surrounding them.

Hope.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Damian dares to believe it.

Tim moves first, a blur of motion as he takes down the closest guard with brutal precision. His elbow strikes hard, slamming into a throat with a sickening crack, followed by his knee driving into ribs with such force that they collapse like paper. The guards fall, one by one, and Tim moves seamlessly between them, every step intentional, every strike a perfect execution.

Damian follows, his body moving before his mind can catch up, guided by instinct and training. His dagger flashes through the air, finding its mark in the throats and hearts of enemies, each strike clean and efficient. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. Blood splashes across his face—hot, sticky—and he doesn’t flinch. It’s just another mission. Another step. Another kill.

A guard lunges toward him, desperate, their hand reaching for his throat. Damian’s reflexes kick in, and he ducks under the strike, twisting his body with fluid grace. He drives the dagger into the guard’s shoulder, twisting it, feeling the resistance give way as the blade finds its mark.

But even as he pulls back, another guard comes at Tim from behind, a silent threat. Damian is already moving, his leg kicking out, knocking the guard off balance with a single, precise motion. The guard stumbles backward, but Damian doesn’t wait. He’s already turning to face the next threat, already pushing forward.

No room for mistakes. No room for hesitation.

They keep moving, bodies in sync as they fight their way through the wave of enemies, moving fast, hitting hard. Every step takes them closer to the wall, to the cover of the alley. To freedom .

Damian’s chest burns with the effort, the exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders, but the thought of escape—of being free from the chains that bind him, of no longer being a weapon in someone else’s hands—keeps him moving, keeps him fighting.

And then, just as they reach the final guard standing between them and the alley, the world shifts.

Damian feels it in the pit of his stomach before anything else. A subtle shift in the air, a tension he can’t quite place. His heart skips a beat. Something is wrong.

The guards in the alley ahead are no longer unaware. They’ve been waiting. And now the trap is closing.

Tim doesn’t hesitate. His blade moves with deadly precision, taking out the guard in a single strike, but there are more ahead. More that Damian hadn’t seen.

His pulse spikes. There’s no way to make it through without a fight, no way to escape without blood on the floor.

“We need to move,” Tim hisses, pulling Damian with him toward the alley. But Damian’s mind is already two steps behind, struggling to process, struggling to understand . He’s still fighting against the adrenaline, against the haze of his fear, and as they push forward, his legs feel like lead, his thoughts like mud.

But they have no choice.

Tim is already dragging him forward, half-carrying him, when the sound of hurried footsteps slams into Damian’s awareness. He can’t breathe. Not enough air, not enough space, and then—then it all breaks .

A searing pain bursts in Damian's skull, like a violent crack of thunder through the calm of his mind. His vision flickers and the world tilts sideways, blurring at the edges. He can barely feel his feet on the ground, the stone beneath him uneven and jagged. Each step feels like dragging his body through the thick, burning fog, every movement an effort against the fiery sting that rips through him. The pain is relentless, spreading like wildfire through his veins, consuming everything.

He fights to focus, but it’s like his body is no longer his own, like he’s being pulled under the weight of something too heavy to carry.

Damian doesn’t even realize he’s screaming until Tim stumbles ahead of him, his knees buckling for just a moment, and Damian is jerked from his daze. His throat is raw, his cries breaking through the haze, but his mind is too scattered to make sense of anything.

Tim’s voice is muffled and distant now like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. “We’re almost there—”

The words barely reach him, but Damian clings to them, like a desperate hope in a storm.

But Damian can’t. His body locks up. His chest feels like it’s caving in. They’re here. 

For a moment, they're winning.

For a fleeting moment, they’ve broken through the chaos, the weight of everything crashing down behind them. They’re so close, closer than they’ve been in what feels like an eternity. The exit stands just ahead, the heavy door a sliver of freedom, waiting for them, an escape just beyond the reach of their tired, bloodied hands.

Damian’s heart pounds, the adrenaline coursing through him in quick, jagged bursts. Every muscle screams in protest, but he pushes through it, reaching forward, his fingertips brushing against the rough stone of the wall that marks their escape. 

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body shuddering with the strain of holding on, of moving just one more step closer to the end of this nightmare.

And then—

Then everything stops.

A sudden, deafening silence swallows them whole as if time itself has ground to a halt. The rush of his heartbeat in his ears fades, and the air around them feels thick—unnatural as if the world is holding its breath. Damian’s hand still hovers near the wall, his skin almost touching the cool stone, but something sharp, something unnatural, grips him.

It’s like his body has been pulled from beneath him. Every breath he tries to take feels heavier than the last, and the sharp sting in his skull returns with vengeance, pounding against his temple like a hammer. The world tilts again, the walls around him spinning, his vision blurring as the light from the exit starts to dim.

A cold, sinking dread fills him.

No. Not now.

He fights it and tries to steady his feet, but they’re buckling beneath him, and the world around him fractures like glass—shards of reality scattered, slipping through his fingers. He reaches for Tim, but his hand feels miles away.

“Tim…” His voice cracks, weak, desperate, fading like the last threads of a nightmare he can’t escape.

The moment of freedom slips away as the shadows rush forward to swallow them whole.

Tim feels the dagger sink into his back.

The pain is immediate, brutal, a flash of white-hot agony that blurs everything around him. His body jerks forward involuntarily as the steel rips through flesh, the cold metal sinking deep, and then—nothing but the pulse of his blood rushing through his veins, deafening him. His knees buckle, and he crashes to the stone floor, the world spinning in a violent circle. He can barely breathe, gasping as a surge of warmth spreads down his spine, soaking his clothes, staining his hands.

He hears the dagger clatter to the ground beside him, distant and foreign, but he doesn’t look. He can’t look. His vision is swimming, the edges of the room flickering in and out of focus, and the only thing that matters is the pain. The pressure. The blood rushing in his ears.

Tim drags himself forward, his fingers trembling as they scrape uselessly against the cold, unforgiving floor. His body is screaming at him to stop, to collapse and give in, but he can’t. Not yet. Not when they’re so close. Not when Damian—

Damian.

Tim manages to lift his head just enough to see him. Damian, rolling away, eyes empty as he rises to trembling feet, fists curled and body poised. The bloodied dagger lies discarded, a silent testament to the chaos, the betrayal.

“Damian…” Tim’s voice is barely a whisper, choked and hoarse. His body shakes with the effort, and he stumbles forward, forcing himself to crawl, his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs. His breaths are ragged, uneven, the sob clawing its way up his throat, raw and heavy.

How is this happening?

His fingers scrabble uselessly for purchase, but they slip, coated in his own blood. The exit is there—just ahead—but it feels like an eternity away. Each inch feels like a mile, the weight of his body pulling him back, dragging him down with each tortured breath. The pain is a constant, unbearable throb, pulsing through him with every movement. But even worse is the feeling of his heart shattering in his chest.

He didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. To break in a way that has nothing to do with bones or blood—but with trust. With hope. With everything he’s fought for, and everything he’s lost.

Tim’s hand trembles as it presses to the cold stone floor, his vision darkening at the edges, but he keeps moving. One more inch. Just one more.

Then, a boot steps on his hand—a crushing weight, cold and indifferent. He can’t help the cry that escapes his lips as his fingers spasm, desperate for any shred of escape. His head snaps up, and for a moment, the world swims in front of him, blurry and broken. But then, through the haze, he sees her.

Talia al Ghul’s face greets him—her cold, calculating gaze sweeping over him like a predator examining its prey. The faintest smile curves her lips, twisted with something far darker than amusement.

“Oh dear,” she coos mockingly, her voice dripping with condescension. Tim’s heart races in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system as everything he fought for, everything he bled for, begins to slip through his fingers like sand.

With a raw, animalistic instinct, Tim lunges forward, reaching for the dagger at his belt. His fingers find the hilt, and for the briefest moment, he feels the weight of the weapon, his only chance. But before he can strike, before he can defend himself, her boot comes down with brutal precision, kicking his head to the side with a sickening snap. The world spins, the stars in his vision turning into a thousand dizzying flashes. The dagger slips from his grip, clattering uselessly to the floor, and all he hears is the sound of his own breath, ragged and broken.

Blood fills his mouth, metallic and foul, and the taste of it is sharp and unforgiving. His body feels like it’s been dragged through hell—his limbs heavy, his clothes soaked in warm blood. He tries to move, tries to push against the pain, but his arms feel like they’re made of lead. His eyes sting with tears, and as they mix with the blood on his cheeks, the weight of his failure crashes down on him like a tidal wave.

A groan escapes his lips, but it’s cut short as something far more chilling happens. Small, calloused hands grip his arms, tying them with an efficiency that sends a jolt of panic through him. The pressure is immediate and unbearable—his circulation cuts off as the ropes dig into his skin. His body screams at him to move, to fight, but it’s useless. Every ounce of strength he has left is being drained away, and all he can do is lie there, helpless, unable to stop it.

He’s failed.

He’s failed.

The cold realization seeps into his bones like the blood that stains his clothes. The weight of it is crushing.

Tim bites back a whimper, but the sound rises in his throat all the same, a broken thing he can’t contain. The thought of it—of everything slipping away, of Damian left alone—hurts more than anything else. He doesn’t want to die here. Not like this.

He doesn’t want to die.

“You poor, innocent thing.” Talia’s voice is a venomous whisper, the words wrapped in a mockingly sweet tone that sends a chill down Tim’s spine. There’s a laugh, but it’s hollow, like a sound that’s meant to wound more than to amuse. The absence of any real humor in it feels like a knife twisting into his gut. “You really thought he wouldn’t tell me everything?”

Tim’s world tilts, the breath in his lungs choking out like it’s being stolen from him. Something in his chest cracks, a sharp, jagged fissure that stretches through the very center of him. The sound that escapes him is barely a gasp as he lowers his head to the floor, trying to hide the anguish from his face. He can’t let her see it. He won’t give her that satisfaction.

But the words linger, curdling in his mind, gnawing at him. What if she’s not lying? The question haunts him, a cold, insidious whisper that echoes through his thoughts. What if Damian did tell her everything? What if—

No. Tim clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms, trying to hold on to some sense of reality. He has to believe in Damian. He has to.

But the doubt claws at the edges of his mind, and it hurts more than anything else.

His gaze flickers to Damian. Tim’s heart sinks when he sees him standing there, hands bound tightly behind his back, shoulders stiff, posture rigid as though carved from stone. Next to Talia, he’s nothing but a shadow of what he was. His eyes are empty, his face drawn with something that feels like resignation, and it breaks Tim in ways he can’t even begin to comprehend.

Damian’s expression doesn’t change when Tim looks at him, but there’s something in his eyes—something distant—that makes Tim want to scream.

He didn’t want this, Tim tells himself, but the words feel weak, hollow. He doesn’t know if he believes them anymore.

“I really thought you’d be smarter than this.” Talia’s voice slices through his thoughts, cold and cutting. “Goodness, you’re stupider than you look. You know, how many years it took for me to… fix him? Mold him?” She sneers as she snaps her fingers, the sound so sharp it feels like it’s cutting through his skin. “And you thought you could just… change him, just like that?”

Each word falls like a blow, and Tim feels the rage building inside him, a fire that scorches every part of him. She’s lying. She’s fucking lying. His fists clench tighter, but he can’t move, can’t do anything. Not like this.

Talia sighs, shaking her head in exaggerated pity, as though she’s the one being wronged. Then she barks out orders, her tone so casual, so final, that Tim can’t find it in himself to care anymore. His head is spinning, his body numb with the realization that everything he’s fought for, everything he hoped for, is slipping through his fingers.

Damian’s still standing there, so close, and Tim just has to keep telling himself that that’s not him. That’s not Dami.

In an instant, Tim is yanked upward, his body jerking painfully against the force. The jagged wounds in his back stretch open with a sickening throb, and he bites down hard on his lip, swallowing the scream that claws its way up his throat. The ground beneath him feels slick with blood, his boots scraping helplessly as he’s dragged forward, each step sending fire through his legs and back.

Fight back , a voice growls at him. It’s rough, gravelly, the words like nails against the inside of his skull. The voice is insistent, familiar in a way that makes something stir deep within him—a flicker of recognition.

Tim’s eyes close, fighting the blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He knows what that voice means. He knows it with every piece of his aching, bloodied body. He knows that if he does nothing, if he just lets this happen, then Damian is lost.

Damian had trusted him. He had been the thread that held everything together, the small hope he clung to in this fucked-up world where pain and betrayal were all that remained. Damian had been given a sliver of kindness, a sliver of love, and Tim had been the one to give that to him.

But now, here he is, broken, being dragged to whatever fate awaits him—and there’s nothing he can do.

Tim lets his head fall to the side, his chin barely touching his shoulder. Tears, hot and thick, track down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe them away. He can’t. His body’s too heavy, too numb to do anything but hang there, waiting for the next painful step. The thoughts flood in anyway, uninvited, like a tide that won’t recede.

Don’t think about them. He orders himself, but it’s futile.

He thinks of Dick and Jason—of how their laughter had always been louder than their pain, how they made everything feel less heavy, even in the worst of times. He thinks of Bruce, the strong, steady hands that had held him during nightmares, the way his voice would always be there to soothe him, even after all these years. He thinks of the old manor, its wide halls and creaky floors, and the way the cherry blossoms looked when they bloomed, pink petals floating down in the spring air. He remembers walking around with his camera, capturing moments, laughing with his friends.

But the hardest, most tender memories come last—the ones he hasn’t allowed himself to think about in a long time. Alfred’s special hot chocolate that always tasted better than any cheap brand, the warmth of it on a cold night, the way it made him feel like everything was going to be okay. Jason’s chocolate chip cookies, always warm and gooey, a little too much sugar, but perfect in every way. 

God, Tim thinks, and for a second, the pain in his chest is almost unbearable. His mind flashes to the pages of a survival manual he’d read once, a tidbit that stuck with him. The brain plays your best memories for seven minutes after death.

For a brief, heart-wrenching second, Tim finds himself yearning for that moment—because it means he’ll see their faces again.

And he’s okay with that. He’s okay, because they’ll be there, even if only in his final moments. He can almost feel their hands grabbing at his shoulder.

Tim is shoved to the ground with brutal force, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His chin cracks against the hard floor, and for a moment, everything goes dark. His vision swims when he forces himself to focus, blinking rapidly against the pain that shoots up his neck.

When he finally looks up, he realizes, with a sickening certainty, that he’s no longer in the cold, labyrinthine halls of the ancient compound or the blood-slicked arena. The surroundings are different—wooden walls, training mats, the familiar smell of polished wood and sweat.

This is a training area.

A realization that makes the bile rise in his throat.

And that's when he knows. He knows what’s coming. He's not here to be fought for. He's here to be made a spectacle.

Groaning with the effort of moving, Tim lifts his head just enough to see Ra’s al Ghul standing over him, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The bastard's enjoying this. Tim opens his mouth, a weak protest trying to escape, but before he can get a word out, his head is whipped to the side with a brutal slap. The guards grab him by the collar, hauling him up, and every inch of his body screams with the pain of his injuries. His muscles tremble with exhaustion, but they don’t care.

Damian walks ahead of him—no, limps. He’s carrying a katana, its blade gleaming in the dim light. And when Tim sees him, standing tall despite the obvious pain, his heart breaks all over again.

The guards don’t even have to hold Tim anymore. His entire body feels like it’s going to collapse on its own, his knees too weak to support him. He tries to move, tries to break free, but their grip on his throat is like iron, and the fight is gone from his body. He’s too tired, too broken. He hasn’t had a real meal in days, hasn’t had time to rest, hasn’t had time to breathe .

All he wants, with a desperate ache, is his family. He wants Dick’s warmth, Jason’s sharp humor, Alfred’s gentle hand on his shoulder. He wants the comfort of knowing they’re out there—alive, safe.

But instead, he’s here. And in that moment, a part of him breaks. Not because he’s weak, but because he failed .

Tim begins to sob, the tears coming without his permission. His throat is raw, and the guards don't stop him. Maybe they like watching him break. His chest tightens, a suffocating weight pressing down on him. Damian will wake up, Tim thinks through his tears, and he will know he killed me. He’ll be lost. He’ll be alone.

It’s too much.

Damian's gaze flickers to him. His face, hardened with whatever twisted reality they’ve woven around him, doesn’t soften—not even a fraction. And Tim—Tim wants to scream at him, wants to break through whatever barrier they’ve placed around his brother, but the words die in his throat. His body shakes with the effort to speak, but he can’t form the words, can’t find a way to reach him.

So, instead, he opens his mouth. He begs.

He doesn’t care how it sounds, how weak or desperate he is. They’ve let him speak, let him plead. Talia, Ra’s, all of them stand in silence as Tim, in a broken, fractured voice, speaks about the manor—about how much he loves Damian, how much he would give to see him safe again. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. His thoughts jumble together, slipping through his mind like water through his fingers.

His words aren’t a plea anymore—they’re a confession. A confession of love. Of regret. Of hope.

Damian raises the sword above him. The air thickens, and Tim knows—he knows it’s the end.

Tim closes his eyes.

And with all the love he has left in him, he whispers, almost too softly to hear.

"I love you."

Damian doesn’t consider himself very brave

In fact, he knows he’s a coward. The League are all cowards, hiding behind shadows, manipulating their way through the world. They use him—a weapon, a tool, a pawn in their endless games of power. They slither through governments and companies, buying their way into anything they desire, using others as means to an end. The world is a chessboard, and he’s just a piece.

He doesn’t even remember the first time he killed. It wasn’t a moment, not a real beginning. It had never been a choice—it was just always there. No start. No end. He had no memories before the blood, before the violence. It was how he was raised, how he was made. What he was made for. A machine built from flesh and steel, a weapon forged in the heat of war.

The iron in his blood wasn’t a product of nature—it was the consequence of enhancements, the price of becoming something more, or perhaps less. His body was a mass of scars, both physical and mental, molded into something deadly. But it was hollow. He didn’t know how to be anything other than this.

And yet, despite the darkness, the blood, the rage, the years of being molded into a killer… then he met them.

They came into his life like a storm, fierce and bright. They were different. They were brave. And they hurt him, they spat in his face, slammed his face into the drywall, broke his bones. But they were brave.

Damian watched them fight back criminals with nothing but spitfire and determination – love for their city and for their family. They fought against criminals, against corruption, against the weight of their own histories with nothing but heart. They fought because they loved—loved their city, loved their family, loved each other. Even when everything was falling apart, they never stopped trying. They had bravery —the kind that wasn’t born in blood and fire, but in the belief that there was more to life than violence.

Grayson—Dick—he could smile despite carrying the weight of his own darkness, almost as if his light was meant to shine through the cracks in his soul. The brokenness he carried only made him stronger, more human in a way that Damian never fully understood until now. But it was Todd that…

Oh.

Oh.

Todd. Todd was the one chasing him, the one lingering in the edges of his mind, the ghost that haunted his every step. The hallucination wasn’t just a fractured piece of his broken mind—it was something more . It was all of them, wasn’t it? All of them woven together into one figure. 

The part of him that was missing, the part of him that was scared and alone, wrapped up in the sharp edges of his guilt. It was them . The ones who had seen past the armor he wore, who had never stopped trying to break through his defenses, even when he had pushed them away, over and over again.

They never stopped reaching for him, even when he couldn’t let them in.

Damian’s thoughts are a whirlwind, pieces of memories and emotions colliding in his chest like a storm. The world is a swirling mix of colors, a technicolor dream, while he feels somehow still, almost grayscale. 

Yet it fits. It makes sense in a way he couldn’t have imagined before.

They’ve been with him all along. Their faces, their voices, their love—woven into the fabric of his very being, guiding him through the dark. Were they guiding him? Were they reaching out to him this entire time, their love pooling into this one, twisted embodiment?

Damian remembers something now. His directive. His purpose. His mission. To protect them.

But somewhere, somewhere along the way, he forgot. He failed. He had been afraid—afraid of failing them, afraid of being hurt, afraid of loving and losing. He had been a coward, running from everything he knew to be true.

But no more.

Damian grips the sword, the weight of it now feeling different in his hands. This time, he isn’t going to play the game. Not their game. Not Ra’s, not Talia’s. His game. His choice.

He lifts the blade high, and for a moment, the world falls silent. The edges of the blade catch the dim light, its reflection dancing off the cold stone.

And then, with the clearest breath he’s taken in a long while, he turns the blade toward himself, the sharp edge pressing against his chest. His smile is small, almost sad, but it holds something else too—a clarity, a peace.

"I love you too," he whispers.

It’s not just for Todd. It’s for all of them. For Grayson. For Jason. For Tim. For Alfred. For the family that’s been lost and broken, and for the part of himself that he thought he had buried. This is the moment. This is his choice.

Damian is going to be brave, just this once.

Chapter Text

The world tilts, and Tim feels it in his bones. The weight of everything, the inevitability of something breaking, something ending . His breath is ragged, sharp gasps of air that scrape against his throat as he watches Damian, poised, steady, the blade pressed against his own chest, drawing the thinnest line of crimson.

No, no, no—

Tim crawls forward – writhing on the floor towards his brother.

The sound comes first—shouts, barked orders, the frantic shuffle of boots against stone. The guards react before Tim can, and suddenly he's wrenched backward, bodies colliding, hands grasping, yanking him away. The movement sends fire tearing through his back, the wound stretching, raw and searing, and Tim screams . His voice is hoarse, shredded at the edges, but he doesn’t care .

"DAMIAN!"

That's all he can say. That's all that matters.

He thrashes, writhing, his body twisting like something feral. His fingers are numb, hands useless against the ropes that have long since stolen his circulation, but he fights anyway. He slams his shoulder into the guard on his left, but the grip only tightens.

His body is a live wire, running on pain and desperation, on the sheer, horrifying certainty that if Damian goes through with this— using his body as a pawn-piece, Tim will surely lose himself.

"DAMIAN!" Tim howls again, voice cracking, but Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t so much as blink.

The Guards quickly gag him, the cloth digging deep into his cheeks, but all Tim can focus on is his little brother in front of him.

Tim is forced to his knees, the impact rattling through him, but his eyes—his focus —are locked on the boy standing before him. Damian is still. Unmoving. The sword remains steady in his grip. His shoulders are square, his chin is tilted upward. There’s no hesitation in his stance, no wavering in his fingers.

Tim’s chest heaves, his heartbeat a violent hammering in his ribs. But Damian—Damian just stares . Eyes alight with something—something Tim has never seen before.

Defiance.

A challenge.

And, for the first time in a long time, Damian looks free .

“Unhand him. Let him go.” Damian’s voice is quiet, but it seems to break through the chaos like the gleam of a dull sword. There’s a pause – the air seems to snap with electricity, with uncertainty, and disbelief.

Disbelief in their weapon turned against them.

There are more orders, whispered now – and Damian’s eyes dull with pain, he twitches, as if being electrocuted. But despite the tremble in his hands, despite the grunts and whines of pain that escaped his mouth, the sword finds itself digging deeper.

They trained him to be quick. Whatever the League plans to do, it won’t be quick enough to stop Damian from plunging that sword deep into the cavern of his chest. Tim grunts and groans, but he might as well not exist.

Every Guard, every assassin, and even Ra’s and Talia’s eyes are focused on the ten-year-old boy standing below them.

Tim barely breathes, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. His arms are still bound, his knees pressing into the cold, unforgiving stone, but none of it matters. None of it—not the pain, not the fear curling like a vice in his throat—because all he can do is stare.

Because Damian means it.

Tim can see it in the way he holds himself—shoulders squared, feet planted, blade unwavering even as his fingers twitch from the aftershocks of pain. Even as tremors run through his limbs, even as his face remains a mask of quiet, seething defiance, the sword does not waver.

Talia steps forward, her posture graceful, but there’s something new in her voice—something she cannot quite conceal. Unease.

“My dear,” she coos, but it lacks its usual lilt, its carefully curated warmth. “You don’t have to do this. You are confused, you are—”

“ Let him go. ”

Damian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade of its own, and Tim feels the tension coil around them, suffocating. Another ripple of disbelief. The guards shift, their grips on Tim tightening, but none of them move. They are trained, and disciplined, but even they cannot fathom what they are witnessing.

Damian twitches again. His jaw clenches, and a pained, barely-there gasp escapes him as another unseen command sears through his skull like fire. But he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t falter. 

He grits his teeth, and—

The sword presses deeper . 

Tim bites back a hiss, as a small trickle of blood bleeds groggily from the fresh wound. Ra’s watches, still and silent, his expression unreadable, but Tim doesn’t care about him. 

He doesn’t care about any of them. He just—

"Damian, don’t—" Tim yells, words muffled and voice breaking, but Damian doesn’t look at him. His gaze, steel-cut and unrelenting, remains locked on Talia’s.

“ Let. Him. Go. ”

His body is electrified. Like fire is being poured straight into his veins. Like molten iron is searing along his spine. Like claws raking through his very bones.

The chip flares, a cruel and unrelenting command tearing through him like lightning striking an already burning tree. The pain is instantaneous, a raw and merciless force that seizes every muscle locks every joint, and floods his lungs with static. His vision swims, edges darkening like ink bleeding into paper, but—

Damian does not fall.

He staggers. His knees threaten to buckle, and a tremor rattles through his spine, but his grip does not loosen. His fingers convulse around the hilt of his blade, tendons pulled taut beneath pale, sweat-slicked skin. His body is a warzone, a battlefield of agony and defiance, but he remains upright.

The sword wavers—

Just for a second.

Then he drives it deeper, until the sword presses deep within his skin until he can almost feel the thrum of his heart thumping like the beat of war drums.

If this is what it takes—if this is the only way—then so be it. He will die before he loses again. Before he allows them to shape him back into something hollow, something obedient. He doesn’t know what’s real and what’s a fabrication, what memories belong to him and what has been rewritten in blood and bone, but he knows—

He knows Tim.

Tim, who is kind. Tim is gentle in ways Damian never knew a person could be. Tim, whose voice has carved itself into the fractures of his mind like a lighthouse in a storm. Damian’s gaze doesn’t waver from his captors, his tormentors, the ones who turned him into this.

And for the first time, he almost smiles.

"Release him."

A beat. A stillness like the moment before a knife strikes true.

Then—

Ra’s al Ghul steps forward, and Damian does not flinch. But the weight of his grandfather’s voice coils around his throat like a vice, pressing, pressing—

" You realize he will die long before he makes it home, dear grandson. "

The words slither through the silence, a whisper wrapped in something almost like pity. Damian swallows down the fear curling in his gut, shoving it into the dark corners of himself where it cannot touch him.

" All this effort, all for naught. All for someone who will likely abandon you once you are no longer of use ."

Ra’s moves closer, and the tremor in Damian’s limbs grows worse.

" He was simply biding his time. Using you as a means to survive. And once he has escaped, in the very unlikely scenario that he survives— "

His grandfather tilts his head, watching him with something like curiosity.

" What use are you then? "

The silence that follows is thick, and suffocating. It presses in from all sides, wrapping around Damian like a burial shroud.

Ra’s studies him, golden eyes burning with something unreadable. The scowl remains, carved deep into his face, but Damian refuses to waver. He keeps his chin high, his back straight—despite the tremors still wracking his body, despite the burning pain clawing at his spine.

Tim is still screaming. It’s raw, desperate, broken—his voice cracking on Damian’s name, on frantic pleas that Ra’s and Talia ignore. That Damian ignores.

Because this is the only way.

"Let them come for him. Let them take him home." His voice is steady, quieter now, but firm. "And in return…" Damian swallows hard, shoving down the bile rising in his throat.

"You can do whatever you want with me."

Ra’s tilts his head, considering.

Tim thrashes like a wild animal caught in a hunter’s snare, his body twisting, feet kicking, voice hoarse from screaming—but the guards are immovable. Their hands clamp down like iron shackles, dragging him backward even as he fights with everything left in his battered body.

His eyes—wretched and desperate, burning with something raw—never leave Damian. Even now, even through the agony, he is still trying to reach him. Still trying to save him.

But Damian has already made his choice.

He moves forward, each step measured, deliberate, toward Ra’s—toward the abyss that yawns before him, dark and infinite. His shadow stretches long and thin against the cold floor, swallowed by the weight of his sacrifice.