Chapter Text
Damian is an adult now.
He's been insisting he is such since he could understand what the word meant, but now, finally, it is an undeniable, stone-cold fact. A piece of his identity no one can ever take away from him.
Gone are the days of him insisting he is mature enough, prepared enough, strong enough; the days of begging to be allowed to do things Richard didn't even have to ask permission for.
Never mind that he was facing trials worse than death at the hands of his own family before Richard even had the courage to go off on his own.
At long last, they can not deny him this. At long last–
“Happy birthday, Dames!” an annoyingly exuberant voice squeals, snapping him out of his head.
He attempts to conceal his own excitement about this day in his response, “Tt. Thank you, Richard.”
He is perhaps a bit too successful, as his tone seemingly causes Richard to cast him that famous wounded puppy look yet again.
“I apologize, Richard. I am simply preoccupied with what I shall be doing when the festivities are over.”
“Oh yeahh! You must be getting really excited for your first solo mission, huh! I remember my eighteenth; I practically sprinted away once the cake was done to go pack my bags!”
What had once been a rule for Dick to try and protect him has evolved into somewhat of a rite of passage for the Robins over the years. Now, every time one of them turns eighteen, they celebrate by organizing a completely solo mission for them to complete.
Up until now, Damian has been practically clawing at the seams of this intangible prison, begging for years to be allowed to go out on his own. Now finally, finally, he gets to complete an entire mission by himself, with absolutely no aid from other heroes; if all goes to plan, that is.
Which it should. It will. There is no reason for it not to. Damian is far more than ready.
-
As Damian descends the dark stone staircase leading down to the cave, a chill washes over him.
He grips the railing with clammy hands and forces himself to keep going down. He doesn't know why he's so nervous; he's done a million of these things before, this time he's just by himself. It's no different, really. He’ll be fine; he knows he'll be fine. There's no way in hell that Bruce would let him, would've let his other children go, if it wasn't fine.
The familiar soft hum of the cave’s computers and the ever-present, distant dripping sounds greet him before the staircase even ends.
He steps off the final stair and stills instinctively; Bruce, naturally, is already there, waiting for him.
Bruce stands directly in the middle of the cave, cowl off, and holding out Damian’s uniform with soft hands and an apprehensive, at best, expression. A mission description folder and Damian’s freshly sharpened knives that he spent perhaps a bit too long polishing out of nerves–no, not nerves–last night, as well as other various pieces of equipment, lay on the table next to him.
The sight sends an odd twist through Damian’s stomach and another bout of cold across his spine.
“Father,” He greets.
“You're late, Damian,” Bruce responds, as evenly as ever.
Damian glances up at the clock, worried, before he realizes that Bruce means all of thirty seconds “late”.
He huffs quietly and approaches the table, carefully taking his uniform from Bruce’s outstretched hands. It's a bit lighter than usual, and Damian realizes that Bruce must have updated it specifically for this, for his birthday.
His eyes dart over to his motorcycle parked nearby, already fully loaded up and utterly spotless. Damian realizes that Bruce must've prepared everything before he even arrived, and the realization makes something snag deep in his chest.
It all feels very…ceremonial, somehow.
Bruce slides the folder across the table, pulling Damian out of his thoughts.
“Oracle’s been picking up reports of a new arms trafficking operation over by the docks,” he says. “Intel suggests a temporary holding site in an abandoned container yard near what used to be the Falcone warehouse. The shipment is scheduled to move before dawn.”
Damian nods and opens the folder carefully, assessing.
There's all the usual stuff, save for the secondary team, backup, and monitoring assignments, of course.
For years, this is what he’s fought for. For independence, trust, the basic acknowledgment that he was capable of operating without someone breathing down his neck every five seconds. He should feel victorious right now.
He feels slightly nauseous, if he's being totally honest.
Snap out of it. Be a man.
Bruce continues, his voice as close to bordering on worry as someone like him can get. “Oracle will only intervene if your vitals get anywhere close to flatlining or if Gotham is in immediate danger.”
Damian lifts his chin. “You say that as though it concerns you. I will be fine.”
“Of course it concerns me, Damian, you’re my son.”
“You’ve spent years preparing for this. I know you’re ready.” Bruce continues quietly, “But being alone it...it isn’t the same. Don't lose sight of your goal while trying to prove something.”
“I have nothing left to prove,” he says flatly, though not unkindly.
Bruce finally looks at him then, his sharp blue eyes searching Damian’s face with the same unbearable intensity they always have.
“No,” Bruce agrees after a moment. “You don’t.”
For a brief, horrifying second, he doesn’t know what to do with that; he simply freezes.
Bruce steps back at last. "The motorcycle’s equipped with updated, well, everything. Alfred packed medical supplies in the right saddle compartment.”
“Thank you, father.” He says as he fastens his domino mask.
Once it's secure, he nods once and walks deeper into the Cave toward the waiting motorcycle, refusing to acknowledge the sudden unease pressing at the nape of his neck.
Bruce is finally letting him go.
-
He doesn't quite know how it happened, but for once in his life, Damian is alone. Completely and utterly alone, abandoned in a dirty warehouse in the center of Gotham. It isn't necessarily a bad thing; he wanted this after all, but it's certainly a new, and not entirely pleasant, feeling.
That is, he's alone if one disregards the small army of hired hands who now surround him.
There are no incessant siblings here to pester him for slipping up and letting in a punch, no fathers here to chide his attitude towards his teachers, not even his big brother is here to take down the men encroaching in what would likely be the most graceful flurry of fists Damian’s ever seen.
Not that any of that matters; he's a man now, a hero, and he needs to act like it.
He takes down the first guy in six seconds flat. Not bad, but definitely not a personal best for him.
It's relatively easy, not because the goon is overly incompetent, though he’s found that most are, but because Damian has spent his entire life training for this very moment, being honed into a weapon that finds it far too easy to execute those fatal moves he is no longer allowed to do.
A baton connects harshly with his forearm, sending an audible crack through the room and breaking his focus for a split second. He quickly returns the blow with a twist and an elbow to the attacker’s throat, sending him crumpling into a crate behind hard enough to splinter the wood under him.
Naturally, two more close in, taking their comrades' place, like a particularly slimy Hydra.
Damian ducks low and disarms one before he can even think about pulling the trigger. The gun skids across the concrete floor as the other’s body falls next to him with a few sharp jabs and tricky maneuvers.
He is effortlessly efficient, precise. Even alone, even with these…strangely competent thugs.
This is what he wanted, though, isn't it? No background voices in his comms, no one barking instructions in his ear, no familial figures hovering with exaggerated concern every time he takes the slightest hit.
No reminders of his insufficient, imperfect youth.
Just him and his mission. Just like his father, his brothers.
He rises from his crouched defensive position on the floor and stalks up to the three mercenaries left standing.
“You are outmatched," he informs the men flatly.
The tallest of the men laughs breathlessly, even with the blood steadily trickling from his split lip. “Kid, you got no idea what you just walked into,” he warns in a dark tone.
Damian brushes off the unsettled feeling that comes over him as the man speaks. “That is incorrect,” he says as he advances on the man. It's what, three more guys? Damian could take them in his sleep. Fear tactics, is all. He's fine. “I know precisely–”
Then the warehouse lights die. Every. Single. One. And darkness swallows the room.
Damian stills instantly. Not from fear. God forbid it be fear. He's just… assessing the situation.
There are the same three heartbeats nearby–
Or wait…four? When did someone else come in?
The men around him tense up enough for Damian to feel it. One of them lets out a soft curse under his breath while another fumbles for his flashlight, the third standing completely still, as if he's in shock.
A match is dragged slowly against the wall, and suddenly, the tip of a cigarette is glowing like a beacon just to Damian’s left.
Then he hears it. Heavy footsteps fall soft and measured on the concrete, and Damian freezes as a new voice cuts through the darkness.
“Well,” it drawls lazily, "isn't this awkward?”
Damian's stomach drops before the second syllable leaves the man’s mouth.
Impossible.
“Hiya, kid. What were you saying about us bein’ outmatched again?”
Damian stays silent. This isn't possible; he's supposed to be dead, supposed to have been killed years ago, and by Batman nonetheless!
And yet here he stands, Carmine fucking Falcone in the flesh. Or, what's left of it, at least.
Although Damian never actually met him, with him supposedly being dead and all, he knows it's him. Even with the awful scarring taking up half his face and those ugly glasses taking up most of the other, Damian can tell it's him; he studied all of those damn rogue files for far too many years to forget.
Tt, Gotham and its ghosts, of course.
He knows he should've seen this coming. This kind of an oversight is just so utterly…stupid, no, childish of him.
“Well, aren't we goin’ to have some fun tonight, huh, boys?”
Damian straightens slowly, forcing his heartbeat back under control as the emergency lights flicker on as a dim red shine overhead. The weak glow cuts across the ruined half of Falcone’s face in jagged strips of shadow, illuminating warped skin and the thin, ugly line where something must have nearly torn his jaw apart years ago.
Dead men shouldn't smile like that.
Ha, he laughs bitterly, dead men should not smile at all.
Damian shifts one foot back into a defensive stance. “You are Carmine Falcone.”
Falcone snorts. “Damn, Bats really does keep files on everybody.”
Damian catalogs the subtle changes in movement around him.
Three men standing, armed, now slowly circling him.
Three are still on the ground, with one beginning to stir.
A gun, on the floor, just out of reach.
Two batarangs left in his utility belt.
Manageable. Definitely.
“You were reported deceased,” Damian says flatly.
“Yeah, well.” Falcone spreads his arms slightly. “Gotham’s funny like that. How's that, uh…what was his name again? Jason? Yeah, Gotham sure is funny aint it.”
Damian looks him over carefully.
He is slightly shorter than Bruce’s files indicated, though that could be in part due to the generous limp he seems to be sporting.
He’s certainly not invincible, not even particularly impressive. Damian can take him.
“You orchestrated this operation poorly,” Damian informs him coldly. “Your men are incompetent.”
One of the grunts bristles immediately behind him–when did they start closing in on you? Get your head in the game–but Falcone just laughs.
“Oh, I like this one.” Falcone tilts his head slightly. “Lemme guess. You're the bio kid, right?”
“Your deductive abilities are unimpressive. Anyone could've drawn that conclusion.”
“See, this is the problem with all the masks.” He taps the side of his ruined face. “You never really know who’s under ‘em. So I set up a nice loud operation, leak a little intel, wait for the Bat to come crash through the ceiling…” His grin widens. “And instead I get the kid. All alone, too, it seems.”
Damian forces himself not to visibly react. “I am not a child.”
Falcone studies him for a long moment before chuckling softly. “Sure, kid.”
Damian makes the first move, ducking and lunging for Falcone in what he immediately regrets as a stupidly brash action when two gunshots crack through the warehouse and pain begins to bloom through his left arm.
Stupid. Sloppy.
Falcone doesn't move, even as Damian lands messily on the cold ground.
“You got emotional,” Falcone observes, that ugly smile twisting his face again.
Damian’s jaw clenches. “I most certainly did not.”
Damian straightens slowly, breathing harder now. His shoulder throbs, ribs aching, blood trickling warm beneath his armor.
All Irrelevant. He can still do this. Of course he can. He’s Robin. He’s Batman’s son, for God's sake. He’s finally a—
“Y’know what the funny thing is?” Falcone interrupts his internal monologue casually.
Damian says nothing in response, glaring instead.
“I can tell exactly which parts of you are him.” Falcone muses. “The stare, the posture, the whole scary night-stalking crime-fighting vigilante routine.” He points again. “But the temper? That ain’t Bruce. That's the League training kickin’ in, huh.”
Damian freezes for half a second at the mention of his past home, just half a second too long, and a taser crackles against his side. His muscles seize violently as the electricity tears through his body, and suddenly he’s on his hands and knees, vision flickering around the edges.
The warehouse feels very quiet after that.
Falcone exhales softly through his teeth. “Oooh, there it is.”
Damian tries to stand immediately and nearly collapses.
That must be one strong fucking taser.
“Careful,” Falcone warns mockingly. “Wouldn’t want your first night all grown up to end embarrassin’.”
Damian almost, almost, starts to reach for his comms, before stitching his hand away immediately. He's a grown-up now, he can still get the upper hand here, and he's seen Batman get out of worse situations hundreds of times anyway.
“Aww,” he says softly. “You don’t wanna call daddy?”
Damian lunges, the anger flashing hotter than the burning in his side where the taser entered.
Gunfire immediately erupts again, blowing the crates next to him to pieces. The force of the blasts tosses Damian like a rag doll sideways across the floor, hard enough that his head cracks painfully against the concrete.
For a few disorienting seconds, he can’t hear anything except ringing.
Damian pushes himself upright shakily and finally sees it clearly: none of this was meant for Robin. Bruce was supposed to walk into this building tonight. And Damian…Damian forced himself into the trap instead.
Falcone sighs dramatically, “Well. Looks like we're going to be stuck here for a while. Might as well have some fun.”