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There's a weight to being Batman's partner that Duke can't say he likes.
By weight he means legacy, although his suit is almost 50 pounds, helmet-inclusive. The myth of Batman and Robin is so integral to Gotham that Duke has trouble remembering the way it was before, sometimes. To the criminal element, and even regular civilians sometimes, the Bat is something from a nightmare, fear and disbelief and awe all in one, and Robin? Robin is too strange to be real, hope colored red and yellow and green, a child and not a child, danger wrapped in colorful packaging. Like all the most dangerous things in the animal kingdom.
Duke is none of that, neither nightmare nor dream, and the colors of Robin belong to Damian, anyways. He's Lark, and being another of Batman's songbirds is a victory that feels—contrived, somehow. He's earned it, Duke knows that, earned it by losing so much and being so determined to keep that loss from happening to someone else. Damian had said being Robin meant suffering, and as cynical as he may be, he'd had a point. But there was still a divide between Duke and everyone else.
It's hard, making something new when legend and hard-earned myth is the currency of the family as it stands.
Nightwing, whose name is a legend, even if it's from as far as Krypton. The Red Hood, who'd taken a name that meant nothing except criminal and turned into something worth the Batsymbol that rests on his chest. Black Bat, who's more terrifying than Batman at times, and deserves to be feared. Red Robin, and there's a story behind that name that Duke saw in the downturn of Tim's mouth and the tightness of Jason's. Batgirl, whose name has as much legacy behind it as Robin, and Duke always wonders if Stephanie ever feels as inadequate as he does.
Another thing Robin had come with was family, and Duke isn't sure he likes that, either.
His parents are still alive—can it be called life if their smiles are as soulless as they are now?—and replacing them feels like a weight on his soul. Like forgetting. He'd never call Bruce dad, feels strange when Dick calls him brother, even though according to the adoption papers, that's exactly what they are.
Nothing sits right with him. Being Lark feels incredible, sitting on top of Gotham and watching the streets light up, glittering and bright. And yet when some petty thug or the Scarecrow looks at him and asks who the hell he is, it's a reminder that Duke doesn't mean a thing to them. The foster homes had hated him, and he'd hated them right back, but there's a shred of him that misses the normalcy whenever Alfred calls him Master Duke or he gets his photo taken by the paparazzi.
There's not a single part of Duke that doesn't feel like a fake every time he does anything, and it's harder still when he has no one to really talk to.
Alfred is nice, but Duke finds the idea of airing his deepest, innermost insecurities to the aged butler uncomfortable. Being the Batman's confidante for 40 years means that Alfred's been carrying more than just his own burdens, and Duke wouldn't—couldn't—add to that. Bruce himself wouldn't get it, that's something Duke is sure of.
The other Robins, perhaps. But Damian's always with the Teen Titans or Superboy, and Tim is buried, and Stephanie never comes around the manor unless she's with Cass, and Jason drifts in and out of Gotham like a ghost, and Dick was the first Robin, the originator of the role. He'd never been fake to begin with.
Duke has never really been lonely but it’s a fitting word to describe how he is now, in the manor with no one else really there but him and Bruce and Alfred. He selfishly wishes Damian stuck around more, that he wasn’t always hanging out with his friends. It’s lame but Duke could really use someone who gets it right now, because he’s tired of being left alone with his darker thoughts.
Being the new kid anywhere sucks, but the disconnection that’s so pervasive in the Wayne family makes it worse. Everyone’s busy doing their own thing. There’s history and grudges Duke barely knows the beginnings of—Jason and Bruce’s tense and fractured relationship, why Stephanie never seems to really feel comfortable in the manor especially around Dick and Bruce, the odd not-tension between Tim and Jason or Tim and Damian or Dick and Jason, how Dick and Damian spending lots of time together tends to make Bruce snippy.
Everything about Duke is new, from his name to his place in the family, and he knows that having a predecessor means being a replacement—if not in Bruce’s eyes then in your own—but tradition and legacy are something to fall back on, something to bolster you through the worst of it. Right now, Duke’s got nothing but his street smarts and his suit and Batman at his back. All of those are worth a lot.
He’s just not sure they’re worth enough.