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Chapter Text

It was a typical night in Gotham.

Richard Grayson, otherwise known as Dick, also not known as Nightwing, was standing atop one of the buildings in the center city. The blue winged bat symbol in his suit blends well in the shadows despite having color. Dick stared down at the city, his left ear listening to the earpiece that each of them have.

"Nightwing reporting," he told over the communication, "what's the status?"

"Quiet boring in my lot," another voice answered. Dick snickered over the familiar tone of his brother.

"That's actually good, you know," Dick replied.

"Not for me," Damian Wayne, infamously known as Robin, Dick's youngest brother spoke over.

"Agreed. It took me a while to get dressed up," Tim Drake, the Red Robin, Dick's other younger brother said on the other line.

"Honestly, who takes that long to get changed?" Jason Todd, the Red Hood, Dick's another younger brother replied.

They were the infamous defender of Gotham's justice in the streets—the night vigilantes. They had divided the city in four, each taking a specific 'spot' to watch over. They weren't lone wolf though, even if there is the natural brotherly animosity between them, they still work well as a group (even preferred so).

"Guys, please don't fight over the coms," it's not like they're going to stop, Dick knew that his brothers just love to quarrel and bicker among themselves (it's how they show love).

"Well it's because I—" whatever Tim has to answer back was cut off by a static, then a report from the Bat Cave (their main headquarters, as they liked to report it).

Just as any vigilante, the four of them also have their civilian lives. And that is being the sons of the famous billionaire and philanthropist's Bruce Wayne. Not wanting to endanger their father, the four of them chose to hide their secret activities to their father.

However, it seems like even with that, they couldn't prevent their father from getting into trouble.

"It's Master Bruce," the voice of the Manor's caretaker-slash-butler said over the coms. Alfred knew of what the boys were doing (because what is expected of the man?), he had disapproved at first, but the four boys managed to convince him of their resolve. "It appears that Bane has him kidnapped sirs."

"How much?" Dick asked, of course they aren't going to pay them, not truthfully.

"Three hundred million, sir," Alfred said. "Commissioner has already contacted me about it."

Jason groaned over to where he was sitting at the edge of the building. What is with criminals and their obsession with rich schemes? They are other billionaires in the city yet they focus so much on his father. And three hundred million? That's a hundred more than what the last criminal wanna be asked last time.

"Okay, have the money ready," Dick said.

"Are we—" Tim asked over the comms, are they really going to just idle pay the criminals?

"Of course not," Dick said, even though he was certain that they could take care of Bane, they was still a part of him that worry. So he was just trying (though failing) to lighten up the mood. "Come on, let's go!"

The other three nodded. And they raced to where Bane had captured their father.

Bane is going to take a beating from four overprotective kids.

Bruce Wayne didn't know what is what with him and his apparent fate of just getting kidnapped. He had increased security since last time someone tried to kidnap him for another ransom but it seems like the criminals had also increased their numbers.

He was really tempted to just open up a bank loan or something—just so he wouldn't be inconvenient like this. The rope that tied his hands behind the chair was hurting his wrists. And the smell—gods—the smell of that worn cloth over his mouth was hurting his nose. Couldn't they at least attempt to invest in better kidnapping equipment?

And it's not like Bruce could fight back against these people. He focus his learnings on how to properly manage his family's business empire not how to fight. Although, his eldest son had tried to instill some self defense techniques to him.

Bruce is so regretting brushing it off. He had an accidental board meeting scheduled that day so he had asked to reschedule the lessons.

He should've just rescheduled the meeting. And now he's suffering.

Bane was still talking over the phone, rattling off some price to (what Bruce thought) was the Commissioner.

Bruce wished that this moron wouldn't try to contact Alfred, or his kids—oh my, Alfred is too old now, he'll surely worry over him (Alfred is a worrying). And his poor sons would surely panic over their father getting kidnapped (again) by some Gotham villain. His eldest, Dick, will surely take care of his brothers. He and Jason could calm down their younger brothers. Bruce really doesn't want to worry his sons. He should've been more careful!

"My, my, you shouldn't have kept all those cash, Mr. Wayne," Bane said after finishing his phone call. "How about sharing it to us?"

Bruce glared. He wanted to curse the moron but couldn't over the cloth in his mouth.

Bane laughed. "No use in fighting, your family has already agreed to pay. Maybe I'll ask for more," he pinched Bruce's cheeks. "I'll milk them dry."

Bruce tried to bite the hands off despite knowing that he couldn't. He couldn't forgive this moron! How dare he worry his family!

Suddenly, a bang gone off somewhere on the abandoned warehouse.

Bane looked troubled, but determined. He motioned for the nearest goon to go look what the commotion was. "Stay here." he told at Bruce.

Bruce rolled his eyes. As if he could get anywhere when he's bound in this chair.

There was another commotion, this time on the other exit of the building. Bane grunted and walked towards the other end. He disappeared over the huge containers.

A minute passed before a shadow dropped in front of Bruce.

His eyes widened when he saw what probably is a young kid wearing green vest, black pants, yellow cape and a black mask over his face. He had a cruel smirk on his face, dangerously proud. He unsheathed his katana trapped behind his back and aimed it at Bruce.

"Don't move," he said—and ran towards Bruce.

Bruce instinctively closed his eyes. Then, he heard the rope snapped, and felt his wrist freed from it. He immediately removed the cloth over his mouth and stood up. "Uhm—thank you," he smiled.

Maybe it was the poor lighting in the building, but Bruce could swore the kid actually blushed.

"Don't—don't worry about it," the kid said, voice different from what a kid should sound like.

Bruce surmised that the kid is using some kind of technology to muffle or hide his true voice. Well, that's to be expected if one wanted to hide his real identity.

The kid motioned for him to follow him and so Bruce did.

The were still commotion outside, from both ends of the building. He shivered, fearing the huge villain in coming back. Even though he doesn't know how to properly fight, the father in him was screaming to protect the kid in front of him.

"AH! MY MONEY!" a loud shout was heard.

Bruce and the mysterious kid looked behind and saw Bane racing towards them. The kid immediately stood in front of Bruce and put him behind him.

"No—I—" Bruce wanted to protect the kid but his feet were slightly shaking because of fear.

Bane continued to ran towards them.

The kid readied his katana and gritted his teeth. "Those idiots better not—"

With one final roar, Bane launched himself towards the two—but was kicked out of the way by two persons.

Bruce eyes widened when he saw two men—one wearing a black suit with blue bat symbol and the other wearing a slightly similar attire with the kid, but has a red cape. Just as the kid, they were wearing black masks.

"He almost got us you shit heads!" the kid yelled.

Upon instinct, Bruce gave a disapproved frown, "Language."

Vigilante or not, he was too young to know that kind of language.

The kid immediately bowed his head. And blushed.

The man with a black with blue symbol laughed as he landed gracefully on his feet. No doubt having heard the billionaire reprimanding the kid vigilante. "You tell him, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looked over beside the man and saw that the 'man' he thought of before was actually just a teenager, no doubt a year or three older than the kid in front of him.

Meanwhile, Bane groaned from where he landed, just a few steps away from them. He grudgingly stood up, clearing his aching head from the impact. He groaned and glared over at the three in front of him. "Lucky me, eh? Fighting the Gotham Knights," he glared.

Wait—isn't there supposed to be four?

The answer came from a shout behind him. Before he could turn around—he heard a whip of a weapon—and his green toxic container was slashed open. "NO!" he screamed—and then he looked back.

And saw the fourth one aiming a bazooka at him.

"Oi that's—" Damian tried to warn his stupid brother but it felt on deaf ears.

Bruce gasped when he saw another one wearing a red mask and black suit fired off his bazooka to the huge villain.

Before he could move, the kid in front of him pushed him towards the ground—and then a huge explosion happened. Bane was thrown by the force of the bazooka at the building wall and exploded on that side. He collapsed after the explosion and no longer get up.

"Oh yeah!" the man with the red mask said, whipping his fist in the air, celebrating for the commotion he had caused.

The man with the blue symbol was over him in an instant, hitting his head. "That's a bit excessive you know!"

The man merely shrugged. "It gets the job done."

Bruce couldn't help but to agree, though. Silently he commended them for it. He stood up on a shaky legs, still rattled by the turn of events.

His four rescuers were upon him on an instant. "Ah—thank you for saving me." He gave a short bow.

The four gave an awkward laugh. "It's uhm—it's fine. It's what we do," the eldest one said.

"Oh. May I ask who you are?" he had heard some news about vigilantes but didn't pay too much attention. Living as a father of four young boys is a tiring job. Even with the help of Alfred, his butler.

"I'm Robin!" the kid said, pushing a bit of his chest forward, he flashed the R on his chest rather proudly.

Bruce gave a short laugh, the kid looked adorable. He couldn't help it though, his hand moving on its own—he gave the Robin a short pat on the head.

The one with the similar attire but a red and black cape took a tentative step forward, "And I'm Red Robin." His eyes immediately down casted.

Bruce noticed the action and gave the other one a pat to the head to. Having raised four adorable emotionally constipated kids (aside from the eldest) he kind of recognizes when one of them asks for a pat on the head.

"I'm Red Hood," the one who launched the bazooka said. He pointed at his helmet, "See? Red Hood."

Bruce gave another humored laugh, "Oh I see." Upon instinct, he took a step forward too and patted the young man over his helmet.

"Tt," Robin crossed his arms but gave a teasing smile.

The eldest with the blue symbol took Bruce's hand and laid it on his head. "And I'm Nightwing!" He gave a huge smile.

Bruce nodded and gave him another pat too.

"Uhm—thank you. For saving me," Bruce said, "I don't know how much it'll cost, but I will pay you. It's the least I could do."

Nightwing immediately shook his head. "Ah, you don't need to. We did what we had to do."

"Are you sure?" After all, vigilante or not, people still need to eat right?

Nightwing nodded. The others did too.

The sounds of siren was heard. The police are getting close now.

"Oops! GCPD is here, that's our cue to leave," Red Robin said, pointing at the blue and red lights fast approaching their location.

Red Hood gave Bruce a final nod before disappearing into the shadows. Red Robin and Robin soon followed.

"Take care!" Nightwing said before jumping back too.

Bruce gave a farewell wave. "You too." He stared a while to where the four disappeared too, wondering were they might be living in. Surely, it must be hard for them—especially the two youngest. He wondered if those two were still in school, or for some reasons a schoolmate of his sons. They seemed to be around the same age.

"Mr. Wayne!" He heard Commissioner Gordon called. "Are you alright, Mr. Wayne?"

"Commissioner!" Bruce smiled. "Yeah, thanks to those four."

Gordon stiffened. "Ah, the Gotham Knights?"

Bruce head tilted in question, ah...he did heard Bane regard them as such. "They seemed to be good, well, they saved me," he gave an embarrassing laugh. What a tale he'll tell his kids back home.

Gordon nodded. "They always do us huge favor," he said, voice sounding proud. "They're off the reasons that Gotham is safe."

Bruce nodded. He walked towards the waiting car, eager to get back home to his family.

Alfred was the first to greet him when Bruce got back to the Manor. 

"Master Bruce! I'm glad you're safe," he said, giving Bruce a hug. 

Bruce hid his flushed face in his (almost) father's shoulder. 

"Father!" Damian ran from the hall and tackled his father in a hug. "I'm glad you're okay!" there was a small smile on his lips, Bruce attributed that to his son being thankful that he's back. 

"You got us worried there, old man," Jason said. 

"Yeah, we—uhm, watched the news and see that," Tim said, he gave a nervous laugh. 

Damian glared at him over to where he was wrapped around Bruce's waist. 

"I'm glad you're safe, Bruce," Dick said, walking over and giving his father a side hug. 

"Yeah, well, it's actually a rather cool story," Bruce said, thinking over to the events earlier. 

Jason and Tim shared a look.

"Oh? Do tell us!" Tim gave a huge smile. 

"I was actually save by the Gotham Knights. They're quiet strong and heroic," Bruce said. 

Jason looked to his right to hide a flush. He coughed to hide his flushed face. 

Dick also gave a nervous laugh, his face also reddening for a bit. 

Tim was also blushing, his head bowed in an attempt to hide it. 

Damian was also sporting a flushed face, he had a pout on his lips. 

Aw, Bruce's heart fluttered. He didn't know that his sons were a fan of the vigilantes. He couldn't wait to tell them what happened earlier! 

"How about we all take a seat, Master Bruce? Surely you've had enough for the night," Alfred said, a conspiring smile on his lips. Oh, it'll surely be entertaining to see Bruce gush over those Gotham Knights not knowing that his sons were the heroes who saved him.

Chapter Text

The Unfortunate Man is having a hard time paying his bills. Atop of that, he's also has an unfortunate addiction to illegal drugs—and those costs a lot more money than all his bills combined. 

Now, a typical man would've merely find a better paying job, or maybe loan money in the bank.

But the Unfortunate Man has lived too much off the terrible streets of the City, been influenced too much by the illegal drugs that had flown in his veins. The Unfortunate Man is no longer in a rational mind. 

He needs the drugs. He needs the money. And he's willing to dirty his hands to have it.

It seems luck again has invaded the billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne. He wanted to have a warm cup of coffee from his favorite store across the town. Now, a typical billionaire might have just ordered his personal secretary to buy the coffee (which the secretary will order from an interns in the company), but contrary to how he was portrayed in the Gotham Weekly Magazine, he's actually not that much of an ass (fatherhood really does bring out the best in men).

So, he thought maybe he could have a short walk outside. The sun was already bidding its last farewell in the sky, and the streetlights are already on to provide some light on the dimming streets.

Bruce Wayne had just stepped out from the café after ordering his usual when he had to cross the alley beside the company building. There were lots of mingling people in front of the popular café, and Bruce being a natural asocial person (who has an ingrained aversion to crowds) decided to took a shortcut and walked through the short but dark alleyway.

There was a man standing on the side of the alley, smoking silently in the shadows. Bruce, not wanting to cause a commotion, walked at the farthest side of the alley possible, his shoulder almost touching the other side.

He thought that it'll be the end of it, a quick walk in the alley—but it seems like fate has different plans that night.

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," the man said, standing straight and walking directly in front of Bruce, blocking his path.

Bruce swallowed down his sarcastic reply, Evening? You're thirty minutes early for that greeting pal.

It was also this moment that he hated being the face of the company. He should've just followed Alfred's advice and controlled the board without ever showing his face in the magazines. However, the arrogant, single, teenage Bruce had a self-esteem issues at that time, and chose to drown himself in fame, flaunting his wealth carelessly.

Well, that ass-move haunts him now.

"I'm sorry, but I have none in me," Bruce replied, already predicting that this is a mugging situation. Seriously, he really ought to open that loan bank for criminals, far from being ethical, but highly convenient.

He tried to move pass the criminal but got a punch on his stomach.

Bruce dropped the takeout cup of coffee in his hands, its remains decorating the dirty ground with its cinnamon and caramel aroma. "Shit," he could taste blood on his lips.

He straightened his body and rubbed the bruising part of his stomach. "Fine," he took out his wallet and pulled out the last change in his pocket. "Here—have them."

The mugger smirked before taking the cash, "I knew you're loaded," he spoke, he looked over at the money in his hands, "Though this is quiet small for your stature."

Suddenly, he pulled out a gun hidden from his waist.

Bruce was rattled by the memory of that night—all of a sudden, he was transported back to his eight year old self, the echoes of his father's laughter ringing in his ears, the warmth of his mother's hands gracing his cold shoulders.

"I—" he couldn't even comprehend what it is he was about to say, his mouth was suddenly dried and his legs were shaking with fear.

He couldn't—He couldn't die right now, not now when he had four kids waiting for him back home. Dick and Jason may be of legal age, but his two younger boys are not. Damian—gods, he can't let his little son lose his parent the same way Bruce had lost his.

"I'm sorry—please," he pulled out his wallet and threw it at the criminal, who caught it with a cruel smirk and a greedy palm, "take it—take it all!" He pulled out his golden watch, a precious gift from Alfred and the silver pin on his necktie, another gift from Jason.

He doesn't want to make the same mistake as his father and mother had did—his father being too prideful to swallow back his resolve against fighting crime and his mother's affection over the pearls that were gifted to her by Bruce's father.

Everything became superficial in the prospect of not seeing his sons again.

The cruel smile of the criminal almost made him fall on his knees. Bruce isn't even adverse to the idea of literally begging for his life.

Damian's soft smile flashed in his head. He was too young to lose a father.

The criminal bowed down to pick up Bruce's valuables littered on the ground, the gun still pointing straight ahead. "Now, that's more—"

His words were cut off by a bullet on his hand, the one holding the gun. Unable to swallow the pain of having a hole in his bleeding hand, he threw the gun on the ground and clutched his injured hand on his chest. "Who the f—"

Suddenly there's a young man standing between Bruce and the criminal. He gave a kick and the criminal was thrown on the ground. The criminal tried to stand but the man merely punched him in the face until he almost lose consciousness.

The man—the vigilante Red Hood, growled as he pounded on the man laid before him. He didn't let the man speak, instead choosing to plaster his face with bruises, until he cried blood.

The criminal lost consciousness, he was almost dead and his body struggled to gain oxygen from his broken nose and bleeding lips.

Red Hood stood up and unclipped the gun from his waist holster. The absolute audacity of this nameless criminal to fucking hold his father at gunpoint! In an alleyway no less! He could barely imagine the horror that Bruce was facing now, having to relive his worse nightmare. He stood up and loaded his gun.

Driven by anger and worry, he trailed it towards the criminal, fully intending to empty its contents to the bastard's broken face. He'll make sure that this criminal won't even see tomorrow's newspaper. He'll even burn the body afterwards.

With a final feral growl, he clicked the trigger—

A hand pushed his and the bullet merely grazed the criminal's right ear, embedding itself on the alleyway ground.

Red Hood's anger turned towards the bastard who preventing him from ending this dirt's life—when he was faced with the widened eyes of his father.

Bruce's eyes were wide with fear, his mouth hanging open. It looks like he didn't even realize what he had done. "Don't—" his eyes fell on Red Hood's gun and his body shivered at the sight of it.

Bruce saw how Red Hood's shoulder slumped, as if he had been hurt by Bruce's action. How rude of him, to insult the man who had saved him. He swallowed down the fear in his throat and tried to level his voice, he opened his mouth to apologize, but was cut off when Red Hood shook his head.

The man picked up the silver pin on the floor and handed it to Bruce.

Bruce took it in his hands, a frown marring his face. "I'm—"

But when he looked up, the Red Hood was already gone.

Chapter Text

Bruce was being silly, he knows. He couldn't forget the seemingly upset state of the Red Hood when he left him in that alley. He didn't mean to upset the hero. It was just—the sight of the gun brought painful memories in his head, and try as he might, he couldn't regain control of his body fast enough.

It was late, almost past midnight. He had gone home that night and because he didn't want to upset his sons, he didn't bother telling him of his encounter with the Red Hood, no matter how much his sons seemed to be fanboys of the Gotham Knights.

He had a cup of black coffee on his side, some left over from the night's dinner, and his laptop. He had stayed late in the dining table, past after he had bid good night to his boys.

"Dad?" Bruce flinched upon hearing the voice in the dead silence of the night. He looked up and saw his second eldest, Jason, pouring himself a glass of milk from the refrigerator. "Was that work?"

Bruce's face flushed. "Uh—"

Jason, curious of his father's embarrassment, sneaked quickly beside his father. Bruce was too slow to close the application window in his laptop and Jason was able to take a peak.

Jason tried to hide his blush when he saw that his father was looking at information about his other persona. "Why—are you googling Red Hood?" he hoped that his voice didn't gave too much of his embarrassment.

Bruce seemed to be too caught up on his own to notice Jason's discomfort. "Uhm—it's silly really."

Jason shrugged and took a seat in front of his father. He kind of had a idea that perhaps its related to what happened that afternoon. He had taken out his frustration on the other Gotham criminals that night that even Damian, who was also a fanatic of excessive violence, got worried with how he was acting.

He couldn't tell them however, he was still too much overwhelmed with emotions to recount what happened.

He thought that maybe Bruce would say some mean things about the Red Hood, perhaps tell him of his disapproval and angry words against the Hood's choice of weapon. After all, it was a bullet that took his father's innocence away from him. To actually see his son use that (though, of course Bruce didn't know that it was Jason) was probably troubling and Jason doesn't doubt that his father will say some hurtful words towards the man.

He would swallow down the pain of hearing his father's disapproval, though. He knew how much he had fucked up, attempting to murder a man (despite it being a criminal) right in front of his father's eyes.

However, he was quiet surprised when instead Bruce said, "I was actually—I want to apologize."

Jason almost broke the glass he was holding. "What?"

Bruce gave an embarrassed laugh, "Well, I know you're a big fan of the Red Hood—"

Jason swallowed back the groan. Him? A big fan of himself? It sounded so narcissistic.

"I actually met him earlier—back at the alleyway. He saved me, from a mugger. I supposed, I ought to have thank him, but instead I made him—I don't know, upset?" Bruce eyes were strained towards his cup of coffee.

It was so embarrassing. "I mean, how can I know, right? The guy's wearing a red helmet for hell's sake. But I don't know—he looked, somehow dejected? A bit sad. After what I did."

Jason wanted to bury his head in the sand and suffocate. This is so awkward!

But Bruce had continued, too absorbed in recounting the afternoon drama to see the utter discomfort of Jason hearing something about himself, "I have no right to control his decisions, but I just couldn't see another death—not in that way." He swallowed down the coffee, suddenly finding his throat dry.

Jason nodded. Understanding what his father was going through. He gazed down at his half empty glass of milk and, perhaps influenced by his father's courage for confrontation, asked the question that has been bugging him. "Do you—Do you hate the Red Hood?"

Bruce blinked in confusion. "Hate him?"

Jason answered, "I mean, he did try to kill, right? In front of you—" and as an afterthought in preserving his identity, "that's what I got from what you told me."

Bruce coughed, "I don't hate him," he defended.

Jason's eyes were glistened with unshed tears. His voice cracked when he asked, "you don't?"

Bruce shook his head. "Quiet the contrary. I admire him."

Jason could literally feel his tear forming at the corner of his eyes. But he refused to cry in front of his father. Goddamnit he faced the most fearsome criminal in the Gotham city, he won't cry just because of some words!

Bruce gave a soft smile, "It's admirable that he chose what is considered as a murderer's weapon and use it for good. A gun could easily be used to kill. But it was harder to be used to protect." He doesn't even know if he's making any sense at the moment, but he wanted to assure his son that what he felt was far beyond hatred for the hero.

Jason remained speechless. His eyes gazing at his father, trying to decipher if he was lying.

But Bruce wasn't.

"That's actually why I was—uhm, googling him. I wanted to apologize. If I managed to upset him, or something. But I don't know how, so I'm kinda looking if he has a post address or—I don't know," he gave an embarrassed laugh. "Maybe I could send him a letter? Or money?"

Typical of a billionaire, Jason thought. He gave a short laugh, "Why money though?"

Bruce's face flushed again, "I don't know! Maybe he needs to buy food? I just worry if he's eating well."

Jason laughed at that. He looked down at his nutritious milk and gulped it down. "Does he look malnourish?"

"Quiet the opposite really, he looked fit for his age. Admirable body structure." Bruce replied, as if he's stating some facts.

Jason almost chocked in his milk. He coughed it out to strengthen himself.

Bruce looked at him worried. "Are you okay?"

Jason nodded, and hid his flushed face pretending to wipe away some milk stains. "Yeah, I'm good—so, I think I—I mean, Red Hood, won't think too much of the incident."

Bruce still looked troubled, "You think so?"

Jason gave an embarrassed laugh, "Yeah, I mean—he has a lot of worries, too you know. Like keeping Gotham safe, so I think the incident is far—far behind him now."

Bruce gave a smile. "I'm glad. I don't want him to change for something silly. He has done good for the city. All Gotham Knights do."

Jason smiled.

Then because he's still a son who competes with three other brothers for their father's affection (not that there's a competition because Bruce loves them equally), "So—that does mean Red Hood is your favorite Gotham Knight?"

Bruce gave a soft smile.

Chapter Text

It was a weekend. A Sunday to be exact. Bruce always make sure to clear up his board meeting and other business schedules for the Sunday.

And in turn, the Gotham Knights also took a strict policy to be extra cruel every Sunday to give off the message to regular criminals not to conduct any heist in weekend. Being the stubborn mules that they are, it took a while—but eventually the underworld got the message and adjust their plans accordingly.

It was a lazy morning. Bruce was in the living room sporting a cup of coffee and a big platter of breakfast bread and bacon that he shares with his boys—who are scattered in the sofa. Damian was by the floor playing a tug with his dog, Titus. Tim was in the biggest sofa on the other side of Bruce, his laptop opened and various codes flying through the screen.

Bruce may know basic computer science, but even those programs were beyond him. He had stopped trying to decipher it and merely shrugged the activity. Tim was probably just doing a school project, he thought. (In reality, Tim was trying to hack the Black Gate prison remotely).

Jason was on the other single sofa, on the left side, munching over his breakfast, all the while pocking Damian with his toe. Of which Damian growled to like a dog (however, he was practicing patience so he let his brother be—at least that's the lie he told himself, in reality he just hates getting scolded by their father. Their father seemed at peace this morning, so he doesn't want to disrupt it).

Dick, on the other side, was also munching over his breakfast and praying that he could swallow the glass of milk that looks threatening in the table in front of him. He originally planned on just skipping it, however, he could feel Alfred's hawk-like stare at the back of his head. Thus, he had swallowed down his disgust and accepted his fate. He'll be here for a while.

Suddenly, a news report flashed on the television. Bruce brought down the cup of coffee he had in his hands and grabbed the report to increase the volume.

It was a report of the last night's events. There was a C-lister heist done by Riddler in the local Gotham museum. It was an easy mission for the batboys. The reporter managed to get a footage of the fight that night.

The boys saw their alter persona fighting the Riddler.

Bruce eyes were focus on the television. There was a suffocating silence that surrounded the room. The news reporter's voice was the only sound that could be heard.

After the report on the Gotham Knights, the news ended and it flashed back to a commercial. Bruce immediately lowered back the volume. He leaned back on the sofa and rested his head over it. "Those boys are really like the heroes of Gotham, huh?" he spoke over. He knew how much his boys appreciate the vigilantes.

Tim has to hold his laptop to stop his hands from shaking. "Uhm—yeah." He couldn't meet his father's eyes.

Jason and Damian remained quiet. The older even stopped pestering the younger.

However, Dick's eyes shone with mischief. This is the perfect opportunity to settle things once and for all. "Hey dad," he said, gathering the attention of the room.

Damian glared preemptively at his oldest brother. He doesn't know what Dick was planning but he somewhat knew that it's something shitty, sappy and embarrassing.

Dick wasn't fazed though, in fact his grin even got bigger. "Since you've personally met the Gotham Knights—"

Jason cracked the bread he had in his hands, littering breadcrumbs over his shirt. He paid no mind in the mess however, eyes busy glaring at his stupid brother.

Tim were also typing in his keyboard a little harder than usual. Gods, what can't Dick just shut up for once? Is he trying to expose our identities?! he wondered.

Bruce, who was oblivious to everything surrounding the boys' nightly activities, nodded his head. "Yes?" he was curious what Dick was trying to point out.

Dick gave a Chesire cat like smile, "So whose your favorite Gotham Knight?"

Damian didn't even notice that Titus had already bitten him. He couldn't feel his entire body.

Jason wanted to throw another piece of bread at Dick's stupid smile.

Tim saved his work and excited his program. He was ready to throw his laptop at Dick's smug face, damn the consequences.

Dick shrugged, ignoring his brothers. "I mean—for me, I think Nightwing is the coolest, you know."

Damian made a gagging noise. Jason almost gag himself. And Tim had to lean over the sofa to stop the nauseous that overcame him.

Seriously?! How proud of him!!

Dick merely laughed at his brothers' misery. "I mean, he could somersault mid-air, plus he's fit and acrobatic. He easily bested Riddler, didn't he?"

Jason couldn't handle this anymore. "Yeah, but as far as I've seen, Nightwing only won because he has Red Hood with him."

Bruce looked over at Jason.

"Red Hood is definitely—much, much, cooler than Nightwing. He battled Deadshot once and won—plus, he has sniper abilities. He could—probably—snipe at least a hundred yards."

Tim coughed. He shut his laptop down. "That hundred-yard shot is only possible if Red Hood had Red Robin's help though. I mean, what is he—and the Gotham Knights without Red Robin's technology?"

"Tt." Damian's not going to let these fools get the better of him. "All of them are cowards. Robin is the true hero among those pretenders."

"Ah—excuse me," Dick said, over-enunciating his pronunciation of words, "As the leader of the group, I think Nightwing gets to keep the title of the Best Gotham Knight, yes?"

"Ah—ex—cu—zze—me—eh," Jason mocked, "Nightwing is not the official leader of the G-Knights. Red Hood only works with Nightwing because he begged him too."

"I mean, not that's Red Hood's any better," Tim said, over to where he sat in between the two, "the only reason they're the pseudo-leaders is because they're slightly older than Red Robin. But if we'll check the qualifications, Red Robin should've been the leader." He crossed his arms and nodded. Case closed.

Damian turned around and actually growled at Tim. "As if Red Robin's better" he said, putting excessive quotation marks, "the only reason you all—I mean *the others—*stepped over Robin is cause of age! And height!"

Jason laughed. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot, Robin's the pipsqueak of the group!"

Damian glared at Jason. "Oh yeah? Well at least Robin knows his way around sharp objects unlike some people, who whine just cause he lost his gun."

Jason growled back, "What? You want to try that huh? Mono-o-mono. No fancy swords too!"

"Ah—ever the hotheads. And they wonder why Nightwing is everyone's favorite," Dick shrugged, feeling as if he had already worn the crown.

"No one likes Nightwing!" "Nightwing is the least favorite hero!" Jason and Damian said simultaneously.

"But we can't deny that Red Robin is like the only smart guy in the group. Brainy is the new sexy, yeah?" Tim said, a smug look on his face.

Jason and Damian both made gagging noises. Dick also felt slightly disgusted.

Meanwhile, Bruce looked over at his sons, an amused smile on his lips. Aw, truly the compassion of the youth. His sons truly adore those vigilantes huh. Maybe he could order a miniature collectable toys-slash-figurines of the Gotham Knights and give it to his sons. They just seemed so passionate about those heroes. Even knowing their age and preferred mode of fighting!

Aw, his boys geeking out over the heroes were so cute.

However, looking at the passion in his boys, he feared that they'll start fighting each other soon. Tim has his hands around his laptop and he seemed intent on throwing it over at Dick. Jason and Damian were already eye to eye, growling at each other's faces, while Dick looked as if he's ready to pounce over at the two and drag Tim with him.

"Boys—" he said, catching up the attention of the four.

The boys immediately stopped fighting each other, their sole focus on their dad.

Bruce almost felt embarrassed with the attention. Maybe he should've just let them fight each other off. Isn't that what brothers do? Rough each other up. It seems like they're regular bonding, going by the times he caught them sporting some bruises and even broken hands before.

It's either training or going a bit tougher than intended while playing with each other. At least, that's what they kept telling him.

"So who was it?" Damian growled, eyes threatening.

"Yeah, dad, tell us," Tim asked, voice surprisingly low.

Dick and Jason were also glaring at Bruce.

Bruce raised his hands up in surrender, "I mean—the four each had their strengths and weaknesses, so I guess they're all equally admirable—"

However, that didn't seem to please his boys.

"Who! Is! It!" The four of them yelled.

Bruce panicked and told the only other hero that popped in his mind. "Uhm—superman?"

The Gotham Knights' mouth opened in shock.

He's not even in Gotham!

Alfred laughed from where he stood by the door.

The following night, Superman got a visit from four very pissed off vigilantes—each sporting a modified kryptonite-enhanced weapon.

And the Underworld succumbed to panic, because apparently, everyday is a no-go day now.

Why are the Knights so goddamn cruel?! Even Nightwing and Red Robin, the two who use the bluntest weapons, didn't hold back.

You told us its only Sunday!! It's still Wednesday!?

Chapter Text

It was dinner time. Alfred was busy serving the dishes on the table, while Dick and Tim helped arrange the plates. It was their turn to help in the kitchen (they had a schedule). 

Bruce, meanwhile, sat on the head seat, reading over the formal invitation that was sent to him earlier in the office. It was about the annual Business Gala, there will be lots of interesting and prospective business partner attending the event. 

"Where will that be, Father?" Damian said, from where he sat. 

Bruce hummed and flipped the invitation, reading the location. "Ethiopia." 

Damian's eyes widened. "That's too far!" 

Bruce nodded. "It'll take probably the whole day if I left early morning." As any business billionaire of his caliber, he owned a private jet for specific international transportation. 

Damian's eyes suddenly hardened. "I want to come." He said, leaving no room for argumentation. 

Of course, the father in Bruce perked up once hearing the tone. As any adoring father, he protested, putting the concern for his son's well-being in front of him, "But what about school?" 

As much as he would love taking his youngest with him, the Gala isn't something that a boy of his age would enjoy. 

"I can do online," Damian shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal. 

Tim, who was also listening, was ready to inject how he can do online too. Upon hearing about his father's travel towards the far country, he wanted to come with him too. But is merely too afraid to voice out.

Unlike Tim though, Damian has no reservations. "My teacher wouldn't mind."

Jason, who is in his second year in college majoring in Literature, also wanted to assert his place by his father's side. Whenever Bruce has to travel somewhere across the globe, there is always one to two of his brothers coming with him. Sometimes, if their schedule would allow it (also based on how troublesome the Gotham criminals are), they will all come. 

Somehow, there's a pull inside of him—as if Bruce leaving Gotham would be the last day he'll see his father. Of course it sounded ridiculous, and he couldn't actually explain the gut feeling (that he's pretty sure others have felt too, since his two youngest were so intent on coming with Bruce), but he knew that it was something that he should listen to. 

On the other hand, Dick was torn. Just as his brothers, he also wanted to come with Bruce and accompany him. Having already graduated from school, he knew that Bruce will have nothing to hold over him. He has no obligation tying him in Gotham—unless, of course you'll count the talks of an incoming Gang War. 

It was merely a whispered gossip in the streets. But Tim's surveillance was able to grab hold of the information. Someone is going to make a move soon—and he'll be grabbing for the title of Underworld's Kingpin.

Bruce was flattered of course. It felt nice to know that his sons worried about him just as he does to them. However, their worry literally has no basis. "It's just one night, boys," he gave Damian an assuring smile. "Plus, it'll be a boring party anyway. Everyone will be talking about business and forming connections."

Damian frowned, he looked like he wanted to protest more but couldn't put the right words. 

Bruce smiled, "I promise I'll be back as soon as possible. Won't even stay for a little sight seeing." Maybe that'll help ease Damian's worries—honestly, his sons are truly ridiculous sometimes. Maybe that's brought by always watching those news about Gotham's Knights fighting different criminals. It might have made them paranoid. 

"How about we watch a movie? Your choice." 

Damian gave a tight smile. He nodded but remained quiet. 

Unable to swallow the gripping and awkward silence, Dick made a joke—and Jason teased him about it. Thus, starting a parade of insults. 

Bruce gave a short thankful look to the eldest when Damian became animatic again, joining his brothers' challenge of creating the best insult. 

Dick smiled in return. 

After the movie—Damian chose a 'boring' horror movie, Dick was the only who got scared—Bruce went back to his room to sleep, preparing for his early departure tomorrow.

Meanwhile, his boys went to their Cave and prepared for the night's patrol.

Chapter Text

Tim was already by the Cave's Main computer, putting up the various hacked CCTV footage and the ones they installed, on the huge monitor screen.

Dick and Jason, both already in costume, were discussing the latest intel about the incoming threat on the table not few feet away from Tim.

Meanwhile, Damian sat beside Tim. He had his arms crossed in front of him, his eyes trailed in the screen, but Tim doubts that he's helping with the surveillance.

Usually, he'll be at the 'planning table', discussing strategies with Dick and Jason. He wasn't as good as the olders, having little experience, but he has good input. And he also wants to prove himself, in a typical youngest brother manner.

Tim paused in his work and sighed. Of course he perfectly understood why his rowdy brother is silently brooding beside him.

"I worry too, you know."

Damian remained quiet, acting as if he hadn't heard what his brother had said.

Tim tutted. He contemplated for a while before pulling out his personal laptop (he had many, each having a specific purpose and network connected to) from the drawer by his feet. He booted the computer and logged in his password.

He then handed the laptop to Damian, "Here."

Damian's eyes widened when he saw the applications running in the laptop. "You—"

Tim nodded. He gave a small smile, "I kinda put a tracker on Dad's wristwatch, you know, the one that Alfred gave him. I knew it's the only one he wears." He said, as if putting a miniscule tracker on someone's watch is something that you can do accidentally.

Damian's eyes remained glued on the monitor.

Tim grimaced, he was embarrassed to say the next few things but he figured it'll be the best way to ease his little brother's mind. "I also—did a background check on the Gala's guests, as well as the sociopolitical climate of the country, crime rates, security, and other factors that might affect Dad's visit." He scratched the back of his head, his favorite tick whenever he's embarrassed about something.

Damian nodded. He looked over at Tim's flushed face. "Thank you," he whispered. Then to lighten up the mood, he grinned, "nerd."

Tim snorted. "Yeah, I guess that's a given." He looked back at the monitor. "And it's not just us you know," he shrugged. "Jason's worried too. And Dick too"

"Dick worries by default."

Tim laughed, "that too."

He gasped when he saw the shift in the room he was monitoring through a CCTV feed he hacked. Penguin and his goons were down on the ground. There was a new batch of goons with AK guns surrounding them. "Guys! You need to see this!"

Dick and Jason immediately went to their brothers' side.

Tim adjusted the volume on the feed.

"You bastard!" Penguin groaned from where he was held at gunpoint in the ground. Tables, chairs, papers and even money were trashed around the room. "Don't you know who I am?!"

"Yeah, a soon dead bird," the goon replied. Around him the other goons laughed.

Damian and Jason snorted. Dick gave them a glare.

Jason shrugged, "What? It's a good comeback"

Damian nodded in agreement.

Tim rolled his eyes at the two. Leave it to the two to be entertained even at a threatening situation.

Who would dare challenge the kingpin during his reign?

"Unless of course, if we had agreed to a deal," someone said from off the camera.

Tim opened up a small window and tried to hack for other CCTV angles. But there is none working within the building. "Damnit."

Fortunately, the mysterious figure stepped over from he was hiding. Though he was facing away from the camera.

He had broad shoulders, and tall body structure. He was wearing (no doubt) a tailored expensive white suit. He was adored in golden accessories, perhaps to flaunt his wealth. He looked like a typical mob boss.

But what sets him off was the black head he seemed to have.

"Great, another freak in Gotham." Jason groaned.

Tim couldn't help but agree on that one. Why was it that this city attracted the most freakish and dramatic of all the criminals there is in the world? Why couldn't they go to Metropolis or something.

"Pleased to be your acquaintance , Penguin. Kindly refer to me as—The Black Mask."

Silence filled the room.

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up early the following morning. He woke up before the sun has even risen. He took a bathe and prepared his small travel pack. He went to the kitchen and was greeted with Alfred cooking.

"Good morning , Master Bruce,"

Bruce sighed. "Morning Alfred" he had been telling Alfred to refer to him as just Bruce ever since he could remember but it seems that Alfred could be just as stubborn as Damian when Bruce first refused to have him adopt that Black bear when he was six. (He did, though Bruce managed to convince young Damian that the bear is better off in a conservation facility that in the estate). \

Alfred though? Bruce was still defeated.

"The boys are asleep yet?" Bruce asked, looking around the hall.

Alfred remained quiet for a minute, "Yes sir, they had—a late game night after you went to bed."

What the truth was however, is that the Black Mask is a bigger threat than Penguin and they had to scout the city to prepare to take down the Black Mask before he could made a move. Penguin was a problem enough as the Kingpin, though at least he remained quiet and not as destructive as the others. Black Mask though, is a mystery and a bad premonition. A wild card.

The Gotham Knights had just came home half an hour ago. And Alfred immediately put them all to bed.

Bruce nodded. "That's understandable" They're growing boys anyway. He's just glad that they are getting along well. "Boys will be boys eh?"

Alfred and Bruce laughed at that.

"Well then, I guess I'll just have to enjoy your fantastic meal by myself." Bruce said, taking a seat.

Alfred nodded and served him the food.

"Don't forget to remind the boys about school though" Though none of his kids are having difficulty in school. They are all constantly over performing, in their various field. Jason with college, Tim with senior high school and Damian with middle school. Dick already graduated.

"Of course Master Bruce," Alfred said. He looked over at Bruce and hid a small smile when he noticed his ward (slash son) wearing the wristwatch. "Be careful on your trip, sir."

Bruce nodded. "Thank you." He began to enjoy the small feast in front of him. Even if it's just a short trip, almost half a week, he'll still miss Alfred's cooking. The Gala may have had the best chefs the country has to offer but nothing beats Alfred's cooking.

After finishing his breakfast, he went to each of his sons' room and kissed them a goodbye. "Take care," he whispered. "I love you."

There was a pull in Bruce's gut, making him speak all the things left unsaid in him. As if this morning would be last time he'll ever see his sons.

He shook the thought from his head. Perhaps his sons' paranoia is getting to him.

After finishing, he took his small packed luggage. And wore his favorite watch—the golden one that Alfred gave to him as a gift.

Afterwards, he went to his car and drove himself to Gotham airport where his private jet is waiting.

It's literally just a three-day trip, Bruce though. What could possible go wrong in that short trip?

Apparently, a lot.

Chapter Text

The situation in Gotham has gotten worse. As predicted, Penguin backstabbed his new partner—The Black Mask—merely a day after their apparent partnering. However, the Black Mask had predicted the betrayal and prepared accordingly.

There is now an on-going gang war in the Gotham streets. Black Mask and Penguin were battling each other, sending their minions to kill the other group's people, invading their establishments, even in broad daylight. 

The GCPD couldn't do a thing to stop them, their short staff and underfunded police precinct couldn't handle the destruction that the gang war was producing. 

The Gotham Knights had their hands full in the war. Try as they might, they couldn't stop the magnitude of the war. They would beat up as much goons as they could—both from the either side of the war. 

But the numbers are surprisingly high. And they'll often found themselves at the middle, whereas the two side temporarily halt their feud to gang up on the boys. 

"We can't let this continue," Damian said. He and the others were in the Cave, the secret basement of the Manor (a floor deeper than the garage).

"But getting in the middle of them is like getting in the middle of a cat's fight." Tim said. " We'll end up scratched." Of course, that's putting it mildly. If they hadn't been working together, as Dick had advised them not to go solo for while, Tim feared that they'll end up with something more than mere bruises. 

Jason nodded. "I say we took one of them first, then the other. Penguin is the easier target, since we're familiar with his MO" 

"But the Black Mask is a wild card. We can't predict how he'll get once Penguin is out of the equation." Tim said.

Dick nodded, considering his brothers' options. 

"But waiting them out might do the city more damage," Damian said from where he's sat. 

Tim and Jason nodded at the assessment. That is their main problem. They had considered just letting the war die out and take out whoever was the victor of the two. However, if they let the destruction continue, they feared that the chaos will merely go larger. A lot of civilians, who was merely caught in the crossfire, would end up injured (or worse, die).

"Okay. We'll take out Penguin first." Dick decided. That seemed to be the best option. 

The other three were silent, letting the decision wash over their heads. 

"But we'll have to scout Black Mask first. We have to make sure we'll know what he'll do after Penguin's apprehended."

They all nodded. Tim pulled out his new batch of inventions. "Here are some of listening device we could use. They don't shine light, but still looks suspicious." He warned. He of course doesn't doubt his brothers' hiding skill, but merely compelled to give the short instruction.

The other boys nodded

"Jason and Tim will do the scouting on Black Mask. Don't engage, understood? We don't want to give them ideas," Dick said. 

Jason and Tim nodded, fully understanding the delicateness of the situation.

"Me and Damian will scout Penguin," Dick said, nodding over at his youngest brother. 

They took each of the devices and pulled out the Gotham map, helping each other locate the necessary places that need further surveillance. 

Then they departed. 

Meanwhile, at the Gala. 

The night was in full swing. Everyone was talking to each other, forming business connections and planning expansion of their own franchises. 

Exhausted, Bruce went out the balcony to try to get some air. His jaw somehow felt stretched from all the polite smiling he did. It was really tiresome to be social.

He placed down his glass and pulled out his phone, opening his wallpaper. In it he stared at the picture of him and his boys. Almost two days of being away and he missed them already.

He's such a sap father.

He was rattled out of his little bubble of serenity when a gunshot resounded inside the event. 

And then, a scream.

Chapter Text

Bruce turned back. He quickly ran inside. There was a commotion in the middle of the room. There was a crowd before him, but they are standing still, as if afraid that one wrong move would get them killed.

Despite his self preservation instinct screaming him to keep hidden, Bruce pushed himself forward. And there he saw—

At the middle of the crowd were numerous goons wearing clown masks, branding semi-automatic riffles in their hands. They're glaring at everyone and eyeing all the guests.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," Bruce saw a man wearing—no, he painted his face pure white, with dark spots under his eyes, and a big red smile drawn from each of his cheeks. "We are tonight's entertainment!" He has green hair and dark purple vest.

Like a clown.

He went to the nearest food table, casually picked up a finger dish and chewed on it. He gave a hummed of approval, "Tasty!" before drinking a glass of champagne—and throwing the glass carelessly. The woman nearest him has to jump back a little to avoid the shattered glass by her feet.

The clown leader looked around the room, walking casually in the mini circle, eyeing each guests faces. "I only have one question. Where is—" he paused, then as if forgetting the name, he pulled up a piece of paper from his breast pocket and read, "Bruce Wayne!" he screamed the name, as if he was calling off a lottery number.

Bruce flinched from where he stood at the back. His heart hammering rapidly on his chest. Why is this freak looking for him? Was it for money again?

The guests eyed each other—but otherwise remained silent.

Bruce didn't know if he should be thankful that none of the others rat him out or angry because then he knows the freak would start hurting them for not answering.

The clown leader frowned and his goons eyed each other, as if fearing for a reaction.

Bruce feet remained rooted on the ground.

Joker suddenly walked towards another table and casually waved his shotgun on the people nearest him. "Do you know where he is?" He looked at a woman nearest to him—and smelled her perfume. He then gave a maniacal laugh. "Cause I know he's here."

He then grabbed the woman's head. The woman stifled a cry. Clown leader wasn't fazed though. "We just need to talk—!" he then pushed the woman hard enough that she and the ones immediately behind her fell down.

Bruce was about to open his mouth to shout when an old man—he recognized was the Chief Executive Officer of the business who held the event spoke, "We're not intimidated by thugs," throwing the name like an insult.

The clown leader laughed. He walked towards the CEO and grabbed his chin, forcing the taller man to look down on him. "You remind me of my father."

The CEO was taken aback. "Wh—"

Then the clown leader grabbed the back of the man's head, pulled him towards, and slashed his face. "I hate my father!"

"STOP!"

Against better judgment, Bruce's mouth opened on its own. There was a collective gasped around the room. And he suddenly felt stupid. Of course the others are protecting him, yet here he was sacrificing himself as if he doesn't have a family to return to.

He flinched back as the clown walked towards him. The man brushed a bit of his hair and straightened his jacket. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wayne." His smile was every bit malicious.

Bruce had to force his voice not to shake, "What do you want?"

"Just a chat," the man shrugged, as if he was merely asking the billionaire for a lunch meeting.

Bruce tried to strengthen his posture—to act as if he wasn't intimidated by the freak show in front of him. "I—We can talk. Here."

The man shook his head. "No can do, Mr. Wayne. I've prepared a candlelight dinner. Better than this!" He laughed maniacally and fired his shotgun on some random man's leg. The man screamed and fell down on the ground, his leg bleeding. "Unless of course, you'll rather stay here with a bunch of dead bodies?"

The clowned masked goons all reloaded their guns. The guests gasped in fear.

"Okay, I'll go." He gave a look of apology towards the man who got shot. But he was surprised to see the man's eyes burning with fear—not for the gunmen around him, but for Bruce. His eyes begged him not to go.

Maybe it was brought on by the Gotham Knights' heroism—the bravery they showcased, fighting for the worse of the worse, that ignited the fire within Bruce. Or maybe it was brought by his own foolish desire to be someone courageous enough that his sons could be proud of. Either way, he couldn't let these people die, not if he could do anything about it.

Maybe they'll merely ask about money. Like all criminal do, Bruce thought. He prayed that it was the only case.

The goon closest to him pulled at his arm and started dragging him away from the crowd and into the elevator shaft.

"And that's all for tonight's show!" The madman said, bowing in front of the terrified guests, as if he was performing at a night club. "Always remember—don't forget to smile!" His maniacal laugh echoing around the room.

At least, Bruce thought as the clown freak laughed at his face, my sons aren't here with me.

He couldn't even imagine what he'll do if his sons—Dick, Jason, Tim, or Damian—were here with him. He wouldn't able to protect them. He wouldn't be able to part with them. At least, they're a thousand miles away. At least they're safe.

Chapter Text

The night was still young when Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian put on their uniform and went out in the city. After discussions, they've decided to strike one of their enemies down before chasing after the other. After all, it's better to fight an enemy full front than having two on either of your side.

Tim and Damian remained hidden a block away from Penguin's headquarters, providing vision and backup. While Dick and Jason broke in the middle of the room, expecting a fight.

All of them were surprised to see the Penguin mixing drinks in his own mini bar. The room was still filled with his bodyguards (they counted at least eight), but all didn't draw their weapons at the two intruder standing in the center of the room.

Penguin hummed before taking a sip of his drink. His back was still to the two, "You're here to take me out I suppose?" his voice was devoid of any fear.

He was expecting them.

Jason grunted but remain silent.

It was Dick who spoke for them, "No offense, Mr. Cobblepot, but you're a criminal."

Penguin laughed and brushed off the comment, as if Nightwing was an old-friend coming in for a visit. He walked over to his desk and sat, placing down his drink beside him. "Though, not as pesty as the others, aren't I?" his eyes hardened.

Jason's hand itches for the gun in his holster.

Penguin motioned for his guard, the man nearest at the bar took a tray with two glasses of alcohol and handed them over at the two.

Dick grimaced and shook his head. "I'd rather not."

Jason didn't move, though he glared over through his masks.

Penguin shrugged and the guard placed the tray back at the table. Then began walking towards his place. "Look, I know I'm not on your best lists of people," Penguin started, tone casual and almost friendly, "but we do have a common enemy don't we?"

Of course, all of them occupants knew who the current kingpin was talking to. The one who was bidding to cut for his place. His only competition after many years of his reign.

The Black Mask.

Ruthless and efficient.

"I don't like where this is going," Tim murmured over their comms. He and Damian were still privy over the conversation in the room.

"No shit." Damian whispered back.

Dick had to actively suppress his Brother Instinct and not reprimand Damian over the comms.

Jason still remained quiet, immobile.

"So, why don't we strike a deal?" Penguin asked, voice laced with sweet promise.

Dick, ever the glorified First Knight, brushed the criminal's offer off like dust on his shoe. "We're not dealing with criminals—"

But Jason cut him off, "What are your terms?"

Dick have to suppress another Brother Instinct and not scold Jason over his morally grey stand. He remained quiet as Penguin spoke.

"I'd help you bring down the Black Mask. Use me as you see fit, a distraction, a front, what your knight's heart wants," Penguin raised his glass, and gave a satisfying smirk.

"And in return?" Jason asked.

Penguin took a sip of his drink. His eyes hardened, the smile turn sinister. "You send me to Arkham instead of Blackgate."

It seems the Penguin has already predicted that he was no match for the Gotham Knights, not even if there's only the two of them against him and his eight guards. He knew that it'll be much favorable of him to be in the Asylum instead of the maximum security that Blackgate has. It'll be easier to escape a hospital than prison, after all.

Nightwing looked over at Red Hood.

Even with the mask, Penguin could feel Red Hood grin. The man opened his arms, and cocked his head, "you gotta give more than that, Mr. Cobblepot. Seems to me that you'll be the one using us to get rid of a little competition."

Penguin gritted his teeth. He thought the offer would've stand on its own. Apparently, that wasn't the case. He has to bring his other card down, his only ace. "Fine. There'll be a shipment. By the Black Mask. Said it'll be containing his 'greatest weapon' so far. Shipped off from some mad scientist he used to work with," the Intel had cost him a fortune and some good men, but it was something worth more than a few million and blood.

The so-called shipment was the one that pushed him to have a chat with the Knights. He had thought of taking and ambushing the shipment on his own, but knew that there's a lot that could go wrong over it and he doubted that he'll have enough competent men to bring down the enemy. Though, with the Knights? He knew that they'll be more than enough to prevent the man and ensure that the shipment is destroyed.

Penguin may keep his little crown longer.

Tim spoke from their comms, "Intel confirmed. Shipment will be arriving tonight."

Penguin, oblivious to the private exchange, swirled the remaining wine on his glass. He finished it off and asked, "So do we have a deal?"

Nightwing grunted and raised his weapon.

Meanwhile, to his surprise, Red Hood gently put his brother's hands down. "Okay, Mr. Cobblepot."

The victory was sweeter than his wine. Penguin hid his victorious smirk. His face remained impassive.

Dick grunted, scandalized with what his brother had implied. There's no way they should deal with Penguin! It'll complicate things more! "Red Hood!" his Brother Instinct going off the rockers.

Penguin's eyes sparkled. Finally.

But then, with his flare from dramatics, Jason yelled, "No deal!" then proceeds to throw a smoke bomb on the floor.

Everything happened so fast.

Damian came down from the air vent while Tim broken down the window behind Penguin.

Dick and Jason immediately battled over the other goons who began to offer fire as soon as the smoke filled the room. Dick knocked off two of the men, while Jason broke one of the man's shoulders before proceeding to bend the other man's knees out of shape.

Damian, in his own, fractured another goon's legs before taking on the other.

Dick looked at both of his brothers disapprovingly.

Jason shrugged and pointed at his gun, who remained peaceful on his holster. While Damian presented his katana, who also remained peacefully contained in its sheath.

Dick rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, Tim swinged his bo against the Penguin's back and pushed the handgun that Penguin pulled in his arm.

Penguin remained hopeless, arms tied behind his back, face pressed against his carpet. He glared at the heroes in front of him, "You'll regret this," a promise he would keep.

Jason pulled his gun out from his holster and pointed it at the Penguin's face. Penguin flinched.

"Just be glad that this still has bullets in it."

Chapter Text

Gotham Ports. Evening.

The Port was eerily silent despite the numerous men flocking all around it. Men armed with semi-automatic and fully automatic rifles, as if they’re prepared to go into war. In the front of them, welcoming the arriving shipment, stood their leader--the Black Mask. 

“Steady,” his assistant called over, hands stretched up as he helped with the delivering of a huge metal box. 

The box rattled the ground as it landed heavily a few feet away from Black Mask. 

Black Mask smiled, victory flashed on his eyes, “By tomorrow, I will be Gotham’s new Kingpin.” He could already envision the throne he’ll be sitting in, the cowards that will flock on his feet, and of course, Penguin’s defeated face. He will show his enemies  no mercy. Only the raw power of the weapon in front of him.

A flash of red in the corner of his eyes caught his attention. The dot crawled from his chest up to his face. The Black Mask stood frozen, “What--” 

He looked up, a bit frightened, and saw one of the Gotham Knights--the Red Hood--by the tow tower, giving him a friendly wave, as if they were good pals who bypassed each other in the park.

Black Mask couldn’t deny the terror that rattled him. No! He can’t die right now! Not when he had victory right by his hands. He screamed and ran for cover, pushing past his baffled assistant. 

Meanwhile, Jason who was standing by the tow tower, carrying the bazooka on his arms, actually laughed at the scene of the New Kingpin Black Mask running away like a twelve-year-old middle schooler afraid of getting the cooties. “Coward.”

Then he fired. 

The blast took almost half of the Black Mask army. Some who were smart enough managed to run and took cover, unfortunately for them all, Black Mask was within those people who survived. 

Also bad news, was the fact that the blast opened the box in front of them.

Out came a humanoid with broad flesh shoulders and chest but metal arms and legs. 

“What the hell is that?!” Jason screamed, aiming his bazooka and firing at the metal human that looks like an overgrown club bouncer. The blast merely rattled the body of the enemy, but it didn’t manage to destroy it. 

“It’s called Amazo. A highly advanced, cybernetic android equipped with the ability to absorb the power of super humans,“ Tim rattled off in the comms, his holographic mini-computer flashing off the descriptions. 

Jason quickly reloaded the bazooka and fired again. It brought the robot on its knees, but quickly stood up again. 

Dick appeared behind Jason. “Robins! Prioritize the Black Mask,” he yelled over the comms as he came to defend Jason. They both escape their fatal position in the tower just as the robot punches the tower’s ground, breaking the metal foundation. The tower fell down like a sucker-punched human.

“On it!” Tim and Damian quickly ran towards the Black Mask, who was making its escape. 

As they moved to apprehend the escaping criminal, Jason and Dick moved to stall the giant ranging robot. 

Tim and Damian quickly ran towards Black Mask. Tim threw three little knives at the goons, taking down the three men closest to where they are. Damian used the falling body to propel himself up and jumped to slashed the other two, Tim then used the moment and hit the other one, his knife embedding in their shoulders. The men fell down before they could even reload their guns. 

“Pesty shits,” they heard Black Mask mutter before he pulled out his gun and fired. 

Tim acted on instinct and pushed Damian out of the way with his bo. Damian grunted as he rolled over the floor and jumped behind Black Mask. The criminal kept on firing, in hopes that a bullet would catch the Knight. 

But it didn’t. 

Damian swirled his Katana, wounding the Black Mask on his back. Tim used the moment Black Mask was shocked over the wound, to rush forward and break the criminal’s hand using his Bo, rendering him weaponless (a trick that Jason had taught him, where he pointed out the exact point and how much force was needed to hit the hand).

Meanwhile, Damian kicked the criminal’s knees. Black Mask was forced to kneel in front of the two. “Fucking kids,” he grunted, clunching his broken hand. 

“Yeah, you just got bested by one,” Tim swirled his staff and knocked the man unconscious. Damian moved behind the criminal, and tied his hands behind. 

In the distance, a loud explosion erupted. The two Knights looked up and saw Jason and Dick having a hard time dodging the robot. 

Jason attacked the robot head-on and stupidly engaged it with a fist fight. He was punched and his body flew back towards one of the metal shipments. Dick snickered, “Packs quite the punch for a toaster on steroids, huh?” but still he felt worried about the way that Jason fell. 

Jason coughed and out came blood on his hand. He felt his chest tighten upon the impact. He grunted but still forced himself to stand. Every inch of his body was hurting, but he didn’t let that deter him. He had to defeat the robot. Protect his brothers from getting hurt. 

Tim immediately went to his brother’s side and helped Jason up. He was worried over this older brother, but wisely shut his mouth. The suggestion for Jason to ease up and not engage further died on his lips. 

Damian meanwhile swung towards Dick and threw explosions at the robot. The robot staggered back but pushed forward again. It’s like throwing smoke bombs instead of destructive explosives. 

“Intel, Red Robin!” Dick said, jumping to a higher ground to dodge the huge robot. Damian rolled on the other side, hiding behind a shipment before jumping on a higher position. 

Tim used the scanner in his mask and scanned the robot. “It has the same weak points as any human being.”

Dick nodded. He swung towards the higher tower and used the moment to jump towards the robot. He landed on the bot’s shoulders, leaned down and stabbed two metal rod on each of its ear-like-structure metal parts. He activated the rod and electrocuted the robot.

The robot stopped for a second. But didn’t get defeated. 

Dick was about to jump away but the robot caught him by the leg. It mercilessly threw him a few feet away.  Dick tried his best to lessen the fall, but it didn’t make the injury hurt any less. Unfortunately, the fall twisted his arm in a wrong angle, breaking it. He screamed and Tim immediately went to help him, Dick pushed him and pointed at the robot. “Later.”

Tim’s face grimed but didn’t object. 

Damian sprang into action. Jason ran towards his brother despite the fact that he could feel his own ribs stabbing him inside. 

The robot’s eyes suddenly shone and out came a laser just as destructive as that of Superman. Damian and Jason dodged. Tim and Dick quickly ran from behind. 

“Any suggestions?” Damian asked Tim. 

Tim paused for a second. “Just one,” he took circular plastics from his belt and gave two to Damian. “Stick this to his eyes.”

Damian nodded. 

Jason rushed past them and reloaded the semi-machine gun he picked up from one of Black Mask’s goons. “I’ll distract him.”

Tim and Damian nodded. They moved out of the way, circling the robot to create some distance and look for an opening. 

The robot was vigilant. He kept on raining down fists, crackling the pavement below them and rattling the ground, while also firing up his laser at the pestering Knights.

Dick launched himself at the chaos, even with one of his arms indisposed. He took his bombs and launched them at the distance, distracting the robot as well.

Then, when the robot was somewhat getting confused with the constant bombardment of bullets and pellet bombs, Damian sneaked at the back of the robot, just as Dick had done, and stuck two of the circular objects in its eyes. To prevent the robot from getting Damian, Tim and Jason launched themselves and kicked the robot back. The robot tried to get back at the heroes and fired his laser, however the circular object prevented the laser from passing and instead turned on itself, exploding the robot's head.

Damian landed beside his brothers. The Gotham Knights sighed as they won the hard battle. 

Tim immediately checked up Dick’s limped left arm and made a makeshift cast with the first aid he packed. 

Meanwhile, Jason had to lean towards the nearest wall, clutching his aching abdomen. It was getting a bit harder to breathe. However, this wasn’t his first injury so he was able to shoulder on. Damian went to him and pulled Jason’s arm around his shoulder, helping him up and walking towards their car. 

The sirens of GCPD were heard in the distance. The boys exchanged a glance and offered each a smile. Finally, the problem was resolved. Black Mask and Penguin, both apprehended by the police. 

“Come on, let’s get back home,” Dick said, motioning for his brothers to come. 

The GCPD filled the area. Dick gave a friendly wave to Commissioner Gordon who gave a salute with his hat. “Good job boys!” he said, tone hinted with pride as usual.

Dick gave one last farewell before he went with his brothers to their getaway car tucked a few feet away from the area, hidden in the shadows. Dick turned towards his brothers, and motioned for his injured arm since usually he’ll be the designated driver (it's his birthright as the eldest), “So, who wants to drive?” he asked, with a teasing smile.

Jason jumped on the opportunity faster than he was able to dodge the robot tonight, “I can--” 

But Tim, his treacherous brother, poked him in the stomach.

Jason immediately doubled over, he winched when his cracked ribs painfully reminded him of their existence. “Bastard.”

Tim grinned and pushed Damian out of the way to steal the driver’s seat. He massaged the wheel for a while and gave a victory smile over the rearview mirror, gleeful eyes contradicting Damian’s murderous ones. He started the engine.

Meanwhile, Damian instead helped their eldest. He opened the passenger door for Dick. Dick thanked him and went inside. 

Jason grumbled as he sat in the backseat. He was never in the backseat. “Urgh, I hate this.”

Beside him, Damian groaned and crossed his arms. “Welcome to my life,” contrary to Jason, Damian is always in the backseat (perks of being the youngest).

Dick laughed at his brothers’ antics. Tim then maneuvered the car towards the road. 

It was a peaceful silence for a while, before Dick remembered the itch in his bandaged arm. He groaned, “I forgot. I have to hide this to Dad.”

Jason shrugged, “You could just tell you fell off the stairs or something,” he’ll admit though that out of them, he’s the one who always had the lamest excuse. 

“That’s a lame excuse,” Damian offered. 

“Or I could make it as if you’re doing acrobatic lessons and fell off,” Tim offered by his side. 

Dick rolled his eyes, “ Then, Dad’s gonna scold me for being clumsy.”

“Well, you are one,” Damian mumbled. 

Dick rolled his eyes.

Jason grinned. “Well, anything’s better than explaining why you’re in Gotham Ports in the first place,” he giggled, though he coughed at the end after accidentally irritating his broken ribs. “Ah shit. No one cracks a joke later, okay?” he glared over at his brothers. 

Their youngest, Tim and Damian, merely laughed at his expense. 

Suddenly, the car’s communications beeped, signaling a message from the Manor. Tim clicked the answer button, “Evening Alfred.”

Dick grinned, “Maybe Dad called early.”

“Tt,” Damian crossed his arms and acted as if he couldn’t care less that their father would miss them well-enough to call earlier than the time they’ve agreed to, though frankly, he felt giddy inside and couldn’t wait to see (or hear) his father’s adoration. They have to be careful though, as much as Damian wants to see his eldest brother scolded, they can’t afford to worry their dad.

“It’s about Master Bruce,” Alfred said, an odd grim in his tone. 

Dick failed to notice it, however, “See? Dad called early, didn’t he?” He didn’t even bother hiding the excitement in his tone. 

Alfred was silent for a second. Then, he shook his head. “No. Master Dick, he’s--” there was a crack in his voice, as if he could barely speak. 

The four Knights immediately felt dread. “Alfred?” Dick asked, worry itching in his voice.

Jason and Damian leaned closer to the front seat. “What is it?”

Even through the small monitor, they could easily see how Alfred was close to falling apart. 

“Master Bruce is missing.”

Chapter Text

Manor Cave. Past midnight. 

The car had barely properly stopped when his brothers all jumped from their seats. Jason and Damian were the firsts to resupply. Jason opened the controller and pulled over their advanced private jet. 

Dick immediately rushed over to Jason and stopped him. “Let’s be sensible guys--we can’t just--”

But Damian stood firm in front of the eldest, glaring up at him, "But this is father Richard! We must go there. He's in danger—”

Dick sighed. "I know,” he perfectly understood his brothers’ rush, but they also have to be sensible. “And we'll be entering what possibly a hostile situation. We need to recon. I'm not saying that we shouldn't go there immediately, but we need to prepare ourselves."

Damian paused, he looked towards Jason, wanting to know what his older brother would do. 

Jason sighed and nodded. It was then that Damian calmed, well partially, but still better than the ranging emotion he was sporting earlier. 

Tim went down from the vehicle, still dazed a bit, the realization not fully sinking in. 

Alfred entered the Cave, in his hands was a tray filled with medical supply. He wordlessly started treating Dick and Jason. 

“Were there any ransom asked?” Dick said. It was cruel to hope that there was, but if the criminals asked for a ransom, that means they’ll be easier to track. 

Grimly, Alfred shook his head. “Nothing, Master Dick. Nothing at all. I wished there was, it would’ve been easier,” he said, finishing up the bandage on Jason. 

Meanwhile, Tim was stationed on his usual seat in front of the huge and powerful computer they had installed in the Cave. He was busy figuring out and researching over what threat he had missed. He hadn’t been casual when he was researching that country. Yet nothing significant had searched up from his research. 

So what was this? Who could’ve done this?

He hacked the database of the local police in the country and pulled up a video footage of the Gala. “Guys!” 

Dick and Jason immediately rushed by his side. Tim hasn’t even noticed that Damian was already beside him, pulling up his own research. Alfred stood behind. 

They all saw home many criminals carrying weapons and wearing clown masks entered the Gala event. It was painful to witness how these criminals cornered and pulled their father, and they’re unable to do anything but look. In the last footage, one of the last clowns, who has his face painted instead of wearing the usual clown mask, gave a friendly wave to the camera and smiled. 

Jason’s blood boiled. “Who is this guy?!”

Tim immediately pulled up a detailed information--well, what they had so far. “He called himself The Joker. A mercenary--well--something akin to that. Gun for hire, drug trade, human trafficking, he has his hands everywhere.” 

“And now he’s a kidnapper too,” Dick said, eyes grimed. The way that the criminal smiled in the footage was eerie, it made him shiver involuntarily. “But why only Dad? The Gala was filled with billionaires from around the world,” it was the first question that popped in his head. 

Jason nodded. “So this is personal.”

That’s actually way worse. 

Damian paled, “Does he--does he know us?” Has their father been in danger because of them? Had the Joker figured out their identities and used their only weakness against them?

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so. If he did, he should’ve sent a message here in the Manor. Waynes aren’t really that hard to find.” 

Alfred nodded. 

Jason grunted, his worry morphing into anger, “So what was it?!” 

As if the question cleared his mind, Tim immediately popped codes in the computer. Suddenly, there’s a map of Ethiopia with a red dot flashing in it. 

Damian grinned, already catching up with what Tim was showing them. “Is that--”

Dick and Jason both looked confused.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief. “I put a tracker in father’s watch,” he confessed. “I knew that he'd wear the one Alfred gave him.”

Dick sighed, but he also looked better, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “I couldn’t care less about the ethics in this right now.”

Tim blushed. “I mean, it worked right? See? The location isn’t in the hotel near the Gala nor was it in the building where it happened. Meaning, the kidnappers haven’t taken it off father, or if they did, we could still pinpoint their location and interrogate them.”

The others nodded. They proceeded to restock their weaponry and ready the jet they’ll be boarding. 

Alfred didn’t even waste his breath warning his children of the danger they’ll be facing as they prepare for a battle with injuries. Dick still has his broken arm, Jason was suffering cracked ribs, and Tim and Damian also had their fair share of bruises and scrapes. 

Nothing could stop the Knights from saving their father. Not personal injury. Not the cowards wearing clown masks. 

And though he wouldn’t admit it, there was a selfish part of Alfred that was thankful that the Knights will be going to rescue Master Bruce. He knew that only the four boys could ensure the safety of his ward. 

The four Knights gave one last farewell to Alfred before they took off. They didn’t waste any second. There was a blooming hope in their heart. 

We’re coming, father. 

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Ethiopia. Night

Bruce Wayne, philanthropist billionaire and current CEO of Wayne Corporations, a father to four teenagers, woke up with an aching head and a body that feels as if it has been dragged through dirt.

His vision swarmed as soon as he opened his eyes. He closed them again and tried to focus on the vision in front of him, but as soon as the images cleared, he began to lose focus again. His mind was beating on its own, wanting him to merely close his eyes and rest.

He heard a laughter. It sent chills down his bones.

"Should've lowered the dose, didn't think you could be this weak, Mr. Wayne," a man said.

Bruce took what little control he had of his immobile body and pushed him against the wall. The simple act almost drained the energy out of him. He had to pause to catch his breath.

He gasped when he felt a metal hit his shoulder. His body fell limp on the ground once more.

The maniac laughter continued. "That looks like it hurts!" the man said in glee.

Bruce opened his eyes—only to close it again when he felt the metal hit another part of his body. Again and again, the metal kept on battering against his fragile body.

"That looks like it hurts more!" the man yelled, laughing as he beat the billionaire into—

Into what?

What had Bruce done to deserve this madness?

"Stop!" Bruce yelled, arms going up in an attempt to shield himself from the onslaught.

But the man merely kicked his hands out of the way and attacked him in the face.

Bruce could feel his nose break.

The man wasn't satisfied though, he attacked again, battering Bruce's right eye in such a way that the billionaire could no longer open it.

Bruce was crying blood. "Stop—please," he begged, wanting the pain to just stop.

But the man was either deaf or didn't really care. He continued on his beating, laughing as he broke every bone in Bruce's body.

"What hurts more Mr. Wayne?" he asked in between. "This?" he asked when he broke Bruce's arm with the metal, "or this?" he asked when he broke Bruce's left leg.

Bruce coughed out blood. It was getting hard to breathe. "Sto.....plea..." he couldn't even form proper words, his body was fighting to merely stay awake. The pain was unbearable. Everything hurts.

What does the man want? Money? It seems like every unfortunate event in Bruce's life was brought by the wealth he was born into. The only thing that had defined him.

Who was Bruce Wayne without his wealth? Without his title?

Nothing but a vulnerable man.

Meanwhile, the Gotham Knights have landed in the city. Due to Tim's talent, they have already procured a rented car in the middle of the night, when no shops were even opened still.

There was snow flowing from the sky engulfing the dark expanse in a white flurry, littering the road relentlessly with a blanket of slick slush. Yet, Jason, despite the cracked ribs, paid little mind and didn't slow down the car. They were speeding through the city, with Tim's laptop coordinating where they are heading.

"It's near," Tim said over, who was seated on the passenger seat to quickly guide the driver. "We're near," he reassured the other occupants.

There was only grim silence that answered him.

The car speeds through, disregarding all known road protocols. There was no time to waste. Who knows what that mad criminal was doing to their father?

Bruce Wayne considered himself a simple man. Yes, he had all this wealth surrounding him, he had a seat atop of the tallest building in the City, yet that is not what he prided himself most.

No, what he treasured more than his company, his bank accounts, his Manor, more so than all of his wealth put together, were his precious children.

Dick, Jason, Tim, and his little Damian.

He would willingly trade everything he owned, lived uncomfortably in poverty, if it meant that he could embrace his kids again.

Their image flashed in his mind every time he felt the ache of metal attacking his flesh. He would picture his children's smile, hear the faint whisper of their voices, and feel the ghosts of their touch.

Bruce wanted nothing more than to be with his children again.

It was the only thing that has made him hold on, despite his mind begging him to let go, to embrace the darkness, and let his mortality be exchanged for the bliss of silence and peace. In death he would be free from pain.

Yet in death, he would be separated from his children.

And that is something that he couldn't...not while Damian is still so young, not when Tim has yet to finish school, not when Jason has yet to fully mature, not when Dick has yet to embrace his responsibilities.

His children still needed him.

His blood painted the floor beneath him. He laid on the ground, his broken arm limped in front of him. His voice rasped. Yet, he continues to beg, to be given a chance to see his family again, "Please...stop..."

But the man didn't stop. He attacked Bruce, again and again, as if making sure that the metal had connected with his victim's every inch of the body.

Bruce thought that it'll be the end of him. That he would fail his children and be forcefully parted from them—when he heard the rattling of the metal hitting a few feet away from him.

He tried to open his left eye, bruised yet thankfully still functional. He saw how the criminal pulled up a white handkerchief and gently wiped away Bruce's blood on his skin, as if they were mere dirt.

Bruce coughed more blood. Here he was, battered close to death yet he had no idea why. He was beaten but for what reason? He was never asked for any amount of money, because wasn't that what everyone wanted from him?

So why? Why was he left in this place, bleeding, and hurting? What was the point of it all?

"W—" he coughed, it was getting increasingly harder to breathe, more so to speak. Yet he wanted to know. He needed to know. "Why?"

The Joker smiled.

"Because you're the invitation, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce Wayne closed his eyes. There was ringing in his ears. When he opened them again, he saw that the place had been abandoned. Only silence answered him. He could hear his labored breathing echoing through the place.

It was cold, he recognized the freezing temperature, yet all he could think of was the numbness. He could barely feel his arms, nor his legs.

He stared at his empty wrists, bound by simple cufflinks. He tried and failed to be freed from it.

He gave a bitter laugh. He wished the man would have just asked him for his money. He would've handed the man a blank check if it meets he could be reunited with his sons again.

At the memory of his sons, his heart ached.

Dick, Jason, Tim, and my little boy Damian.

It looks like your father won't be coming home tonight.

They were close. So very, so painfully close.

The boys could see the outline of the abandoned warehouse where they knew that their father was being held. The red light on Tim's monitor flashed, a blaring hope.

Jason swallowed down the pain in his chest. His broken ribs seemed to want to remind him of their existence. Yet he pointedly ignored it. He gritted his teeth and sped up.

They're close.

We're coming.

"Faster!" Damian yelled from the backseat. He was ready to leap from their car and beat the people responsible from taking their father away from them. He would show them no mercy. He would bathe in their blood. Not even his oldest brother could stop him.

The warehouse was coming to a close. The boys readied their weapons.

When all of a sudden—

BOOM!

The warehouse exploded right in front of their eyes. Jason had to stop the car. They immediately jumped out of the vehicle as if believing that what they initially saw was nothing but a figment of their paranoia.

But when they stepped out of the car, they were greeted with the sight of the blazing fire and heat in their cheeks.

"Father!" "Dad!"

Jason collapsed on his knees. "No—No!"

Tim remained rooted where he stood, eyes wide as his mind tries very hard to grasp the notion that his father was— "This can't be..."

Dick could barely stand on his own, he stared wide eyed as the fire engulfed his father. "Not like this.....not....no—"

Damian cried. He didn't even know when it started, but suddenly there was wetness on his cheeks, and there was screaming in his ears. He hadn't realized that the voice was his own.

It was a winter night, in front of a burning warehouse, where the Gotham Knights mourned the death of Bruce Wayne.

Chapter Text

There was no body to bury. They found nothing in the wreckage of the burnt building. There was only ruined random equipment, ashes and snow....and their father's priced golden watch.

Tim couldn't even bear to look at it without breaking down. It was a reminder of how much he had failed.

Dick had decided to take care of it. He personally cleaned the watch and stored it where even Alfred will not have to bear to look at it.

He had taken on his big brother role and arranged all the necessities with Alfred. He was also the one who volunteered to break the news to the man they've taken as their grandfather.

Alfred had closed himself off pretty much after that. The same way that Damian had closed himself.

There was much to finalize after their father's death. So many people to formally inform. Because of Bruce's name and popularity among both the Gotham Elites and the public, they have to face the onslaught of the media. The news broke out of the city, printed in the headlines of every media outlet in existence. Bruce's death and memorial became the topic of the city.

They were forced to go through an interview one, the very first and the last that they had appeared in public. It was to officially confirm the death of their father. His brothers didn't even have to pretend to be distraught. It was evident in their body, in their silence. 

They were defeated. And utterly alone.

They wanted to have a private burial, a closed casket ceremony since they had even failed to save their father's body. Yet with the media outrage, the boys had feared that they would be subjected to facing the media vultures every second and not even be allowed to mourn in silence.

Yet they were pleasantly surprised when the public was the one who shielded them. Because Bruce Wayne was a good man and a well-loved philanthropist who had never failed to give to the city, he was hailed as a hero. A hero. The citizens of Gotham had taken it upon themselves to protect Bruce's family, as a way of giving thanks to the man who had helped them. They pushed the media (and even threatened them) to give the boys privacy.

And the media couldn't do anything but to follow the public's demand.

Damian was awestruck by what had happened and idolized his father more. His biological grandfather had always insisted that they'll change the world, even through force, yet here was an ordinary man, his father, Bruce Wayne, changing people's lives and being treated as a hero without shedding blood.

He had changed the world. Without resorting to violence.

Damian cried even more. He was in his room, still mourning the death of their father. Titus sat quietly by his side, offering his condolences.

Meanwhile, Dick tries very hard to stay strong for his brothers. He stepped in his role and doubled his efforts to prevent his family from collapsing upon the tragedy.

Damian had become unresponsive and often violent to the criminals. It had been an issue before, Dick knew how much he had reprimanded his youngest brother, yet it seemed like there was nothing stopping the younger from raging against Gotham's worse.

And whenever Dick tries to reprimand him again, Damian lashes out to Dick, turning his anger to his brother.

Dick has to privately tend over to the few cuts left on his body. He couldn't let Alfred see it, though it's not like Alfred seemed to care about them anymore.

Dick doesn't want to sound bitter, but it was getting harder and harder not to be when the one he was looking up to help him, was also secluding himself in his mourning. Though, Dick understood that it must have been very hard for Alfred, with another Wayne dying on his watch.

He sighed and went to the Cave where he saw Tim, again lacking sleeping.

Dick was supposed to take over Bruce's shares over the company and assume the man's position as head of the Board committee, yet he had regretfully neglected his business lessons (and it's not like his father had forced him to).

So, Tim had taken over that role, hiding behind Dick's image and secretly reviewing the paperworks before telling which to sign for Dick, since he still wasn't within legal age to take over the company.

Jason could've helped their eldest, yet he was also being evasive. He wasn't even tagging along during their patrol, instead giving off some lousy excuse as to why he couldn't go out on patrol.

I'm doing some papers for college. Was his go-to excuse, yet Dick knew that it wasn't enough. There was a tug in his gut that screams that Jason was off doing something different than writing criticism of literature.

"Let him mourn on his own," Tim had rolled his eyes and brushed off Dick's inquiries when the older had asked the younger. Dick had thought that Jason would be the same as Damian, having been closer in personality, he thought that he had to watch Jason being roughed with the criminals along Damian.

Dick wanted to clarify himself to Tim but the younger merely brushed him off and ignored him for the rest of the night. He swallowed back his hurt.

There was a mild animosity surrounding him and his brothers ever since their father's death. Try as they might, they couldn't direct their blame and guilt to anyone but their own.

Instead of going to patrol, Dick had followed his younger brother, Jason to whatever it is that's occupying his nights.

He had failed to follow his gut instinct before, there was a calling in him to follow his father out of the country, yet he had ignored it.

He couldn't do that again. He couldn't afford to lose another one.

To his surprise, he saw Jason attacking and interrogating a petty criminal on the streets. They were in an abandoned alleyway, with almost no civilians around to hear the grunting of a man.

Dick was about to land in between his brother and the criminal when he saw it.

An abandoned clown mask on the ground. Blood decorating it.

"Where is he?" Jason growled. "Where is the Joker?!" he punched the criminal again, before kicking him the stomach.

The criminal doubled over and coughed, a frightened "I don't know! Please!" came out of his lips, begging his assailant.

Dick's eyes were transfixed on the mask. His body froze. It was as if his world halted and only he and the mask existed. Everything else became background noise.

"You're with them, you know him. Where is he?!" Jason continued, not even letting the man pause to take a breath. His attacks were getting even stronger, harsher.

The criminal continued begging, "Please! I can't! He'll kill me."

Jason pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man's face, "Well then, choose your executioner ."

The criminal cried. He still had his lips tightly sealed.

But then Jason cocked his gun and fired—centimeters away from the man's face.

The bullet grazed the criminal's face, making him bleed. As the threat dawned on him, he confessed, "In the narrows! He's in the narrows. Please don't kill me I have a daughte r—"

But Jason didn't let him finish. He fired his gun.

Bang. Bang. Two gunshot wounds on the criminal's head.

The criminal's body laid limp, his face contorted into an act of surprise.

Dick felt sick. He just saw his younger brother kill someone, without hesitation, without remorse. A cold-blooded murder. He closed in on his brother. "How could you?!" He cried. He pulled back his brother's arms, "We're not this, little wing We're not criminals." He was horrified. There were tears in his eyes, mourning over the shadow of what is left of his brother's innocence.

Jason's body began to shake. And then he cried, his sobs muffled by the helmet on his head. "They took him, brother. They killed him."

Dick hugged Jason and cried over his shoulder. "Please, don't be like them. We're not like them." He couldn't lose his brother to this, to the darkness, to a life of nothing but revenge.

They're supposed to be the heroes of the city. The ones who fought the crime, not committing it.

But Jason's mind was already made. He pushed his older brother back, "I don't care! They killed dad!" His voice rattled with lingering sadness and ranging anger.

"And this won't bring him back!"

"But it'll be worth it!"

Dick can't see his brother like this. He tried to lean closer again, but Jason took a step back. He swallowed back his fear, his worry and hurt flashing in his eyes, "Jay, I've been on this path before. You know this, you can't—I don't want to see you fall to this."

But Jason turned his back to him, to the brother who cared for him.

"Then close your eyes, brother. Cause I'm not going to stop until the clown is dead ."

And just as that, he disappeared.

Dick punched the wall. He stared at the mask on the ground and was reminded of what they had taken away from him. His father. And now his brother.

He smashed his foot on the mask until it shattered.

Chapter Text

Unable to do anything, Richard "Dick" Grayson went back into Wayne Manor.

As usual, he was greeted with silence. He sighed and began his walk towards his room when he noticed that the dining area was lit. He figured it must have been one of his brothers having a late dinner. He wished it was just that.

When he entered the room, he saw their grandfather (he couldn't deny the title to Alfred) seated on the table, a picture of young Bruce Wayne with his parents in front of him. His shoulders were downcast as if there were rocks on each of them holding them down, his eyes were empty, mourning over the lost.

His eyes were bloodshot and there were tears flowing down from his cheeks. But he doesn't look as if he was aware that he was crying.

Dick frowned. He sat beside Alfred and put an arm around the old, fragile man. "It's okay," he whispered, even though he couldn't believe the truth in it.

Nothing was okay. His father was dead. And everything…

everything was worse now.

Alfred made no move as to acknowledge the presence beside him. His voice was shivering, yet he kept on talking, "I've failed him," he whispered, perhaps only intent to talk to himself, "I've failed them."

Dick swallowed back his own tears. "It's not your fault," he assured him, but Alfred was deaf to his words, to reasons. He felt responsible to the death of his ward. How could he not? When Thomas had sat with him one day, fully knowing that his time may come to a halt one night, take care of our child for us, he had told him, look for him as if he was yours.

"How could I ever visit their graves? Knowing that it was I who had caused their son's death? Knowing that I had failed to save him?" All of their lives, ended in his supposed protection.

Dick remained silent. He couldn't utter any word, couldn't find the right ones that will get through Alfred. How could he even explain that it wasn't his fault when Dick also felt partially responsible?

A part of him had begged, screamed, pleaded for Dick to come with his father in Ethiopia. A part of him had warned him that it might be the last time he could hug his father.

Yet, what did he do?

Nothing.

Dick's lips quivered. And before he knew it, he was already crying.

In the silence of the dining area, they mourned again for the loss of Bruce Wayne.

After an hour, when they had exhausted all their tears, Alfred and Dick parted, saying a quick Good Night. And each went to their room. Alfred had carried the picture on his arms, hugged it close to his chest, as if it was the only thing he could get his strength to continue living.

Dick sighed and went into his room. He closed the door with a gentle push. And as if drained from everything, leaned his back to the door, and slowly slid down to the floor. He pulled his knees close to him, hugged them with his arms, and buried his head between.

In the privacy that it offers, Dick surrendered himself. And allowed himself to be weak.

He thought he had already sparred all the tears that his body could produce, yet it turns out he has more to shed. His body shook and his sobs echoed in the room.

Everything was going into shit. Alfred began to isolate himself. Damian had gone back to his old destructive ways. Tim was obsessing over taking the business and who-knows-what he's programming back in the cave. And Jason...his dear brother, was lost on his path to revenge.

Try as he might, Dick wasn't strong enough. He's not strong enough to pull his family back together.

I need you, dad.

He felt exhausted. So utterly hopeless. He had done what he could, he tried to remain strong, to be the guiding light for his brothers, but it wasn't enough. He just wasn't enough.

Why wasn't he enough?

In fact, was he even needed anymore? What good is an older brother if his younger ones had been led astray? What good is his place in the family if everyone hated each other?

What was his place in this family? Is there a family that he could still protect? Everyone had gone off their ways, they weren't even interacting with each other, aside from the polite greetings. They have become strangers to each other. A group of people that just so happens to share a room next to each other.

What else could be done?

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Jason was preparing for the lead he got with the useless thug ( he murdered in cold blood ). He restocked his ammunition , stitched a few of the cuts he received earlier, and poked on some of his healing bruises.

All of a sudden, he heard footsteps. He paused and looked up. Damian stood in front of him, dawned in an all-black attire, with his katana strapped on his back.

Jason glared at the kid. "Did Dick put you up with this?" It wouldn't be above his older brother to guilt-trip him. Dick knew that Jason also has that overprotectiveness towards his younger brothers (though Jason will deny it).

Jason also couldn't deny that his older brother was right. This path to revenge will lead to nothing but destruction, a madness in its making. And he doesn't want his younger brother to be caught up with it. He has no reservations if it was only him that he's putting in harm's way, pushing into the depths of revenge and hatred. But he'll be damned if he'll allow his younger brothers to experience it.

Damian was still too young, though not inexperienced to the darkness and cruelty that humankind has to offer. And Jason wanted to protect that shed of youngness in his brothers.

"Tell him that he's wasting his time. And yours. Cause I'm not going to stop," he turned his back on the younger and walked towards his motorcycle.

He was met with Damian, standing in between him and his vehicle. Again, he was awfully quiet. Jason missed the days when his younger brother would burst, became loud and obnoxious. Fitting for a kid his age.

Yet, this time, Damian had a few words to spare. "I'm coming with."

Jason didn't even pause to think. "No."

Damian was ever stubborn though. He pulled up a device and showed his brother a hologram map of the Narrows. "You'll be wasting time searching the area." He clicked the device and it flickered to an abandoned Gotham Port, the same one where they apprehended Black Mask. "Joker was expecting a shipment tonight. Talk was that he has to export some goods. And by goods, I mean human beings."

Jason gritted his teeth. "So he's dwelling in human trafficking now?"

Damian nodded. "Children. Some as low as three."

Jason cursed. "How low can this piece of shit get?!"

Damian shook his head. He unsheathed his sword. The blade glistened under the Cave's light. "That's why tonight he dies ."

Jason's eyes hardened. He understood his brother, and as much as he didn't want to forcefully lock his brother in his room, he knew that Damian would just sneak out. And by then Jason would get blindsided as to where he could best protect his brother when the clash happened.

A battle will happen. The Gotham Ports will be decorated with blood tonight.

Jason sighed. It seems like misery do love company. He hopped on his bike and handed over an extra helmet to his younger brother.

Damian said a quick thanks before putting it on and getting behind Jason.

Jason started the engine and together they went off.

Just as they exit the Cave, the door opens. Tim looked at the leaving motorcycle. And glared.

Gotham Ports.

Jason and Damian both find themselves in the familiar grounds. They were perched atop an abandoned warehouse in the vicinity. They have in their hands binoculars that they used to spy on the exchange happening just a few meters away.

The area was littered with men wearing clown masks and carrying heavy assault weapons. They are walking around the area, as if guarding it.

Then, in the distance, came in a convoy. One car and one truck. The vehicles stopped in front of the men, and out came the Joker.

Joker was dressed in a bright violet suit and green undershirt.

"Hideous," Damian whispered beside Jason.

Jason snickered.

The Joker motioned for his men and they all nodded in understanding. The truck was then guided to park beside the warehouse. Some goons then opened the warehouse door and out came a tow of children locked in cages. The children appeared to be delirious but awake.

"Drugged," Jason whispered. Damian nodded.

Meanwhile, they heard Joker's obnoxious laughter. "Stuck them all in there! If they live, they get to have a new life," he said, as if he was shipping the children to a theme park and not to live a life of slaver. "And if they die, well, that's just life."

The goons were apathetic though, probably wouldn't care if they have to slaughter those kids for some cash. They followed Joker's orders and loaded the cages into the truck.

As they were doing so, something landed in the truck cargo's roof. The men paused and looked up—

And came face-to-face with the Red Hood.

Before any of them could react, Jason threw smoke bombs and covered the whole area in it.

Damian went out from where he had hid in the shadows and quickly and efficiently took care of the goons. He used his Katana to fatally wound each and every one of the enemies, leaving them with a gash on their necks, gasping for their last breaths.

Jason, with his precision in guns, littered the others with a bullet in either their heads or also in their necks. Some suffered a quick death, others have to beg for it.

When the smoke cleared, only the children and the Joker were left alive. Damian moved quickly and sliced the Joker's back. He kicked him behind his knees and forced the criminal into the ground.

Jason pulled the Joker's hair and took out his dagger. He pointed it at the man's neck and pushed it deep enough to cut. "Why did you kill Bruce Wayne?" His anger barely at bay.

The Joker merely laughed. His eyes remained crazy as he was faced with his executioner.

Jason kicked the clown in the stomach, hard enough for the clown to cough out blood. "Why did you take him?!"

The Joker merely laughed again, unfazed by Death glaring down on him. "It's pure business, dear. Nothing personal."

Damian grunted. He pulled his Katana and stabbed the clown in the shoulder.

The Joker howled in pain, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "How dare you?!"

Damian merely twisted the weapon, making the clown gasp in pain, before pulling it out. Jason then used the opportunity to push the arm out of its sockets.

"What business?!"

The Joker grinned. His blood made his teeth appear red. "An invitation." 

Jason glared. The Joker isn't making any sense. An invitation? To whom? For what? For them? Had the Joker made the connection? How? How?! He could feel his blood pulsed with his anger. Frustration upon having so many unanswered questions.

The Joker laughed at his misery.

Jason growled. Was his father's death just one big joke to this clown?! He twirled his dagger and stabbed the Joker in his other shoulder. "What. Invitation?!"

The clown howled in pain. And as if in a moment of clarity, he decided to give in, "To an Al Ghul ," he spat the name like a curse.

Behind the clown, Jason saw how Damian paled.

He tried to mask the tremor in his voice. "What does that have to do with Wayne?" he asked, though a part of him was afraid of the answer.

He—They—had thought that Damian's past has long been resolved, forgotten over the death of his mother. But how?! How could they miss this?

The Joker laughed again, though he was incredibly finding it hard to do so. He was coughing in between, and he was quickly losing blood.

Behind him, Damian was panicking. He went in front of the Joker and started punching him. "What?! What do you want with me?!"

The Joker must've been delirious over his loss of blood. He seemed lost in his own head, merely laughing despite someone battering his face.

Jason pulled back his younger brother. He pulled the clown up, straightening his body from where he kneeled in front of him. "Who was your contact?"

But the Joker has embraced his end. He grinned. "You could kill me...." he coughed, a last attempt to hold on, "but you couldn't... will never ...get rid of me."

Jason glared. He pulled out his gun and fired.

The Joker's blood splattered on his hand, a droplet finding its way to his hood. The clown now laid lifeless, a bullet in between his eyes.

Damian was shocked, but not upon witnessing a cold murder. He went over his brother and pushed him. "What have you done?! We needed answers!"

Jason looked down on his brother, his voice stern. A command on his lips. "We need to get back to the Manor. Now." for some reason, there was urgency in his voice.

But Damian was somewhat lost on his own. His body began to shake. Everything. Everything was his fault. His father died because of him.

Somehow, he felt as if he was stuck in one of those cages, with walls enclosing around him. He gasped, the air seemingly evading him. He couldn't breathe—

He felt strong arms surrounding him, and was engulfed in the warmth of an embrace.

"It's not your fault," Jason's voice rang through his ears, unfiltered by his hood.

Damian nodded, but somewhat a part of him refuses to believe his brother's kind words.

Chapter Text

The GCPD arrived and the children were saved.

The news was all-over every media outlet after that. The Joker's body was found on the roadside of the ports, a bullet in his head, both of his shoulders stabbed, one even was forcefully broken.

Dick gasped. He was in the living room of the Manor watching the news when he saw the Joker's dead body. He panicked. This couldn't be happening—he had an inkling, a frightening notion in his head.

All of a sudden, the door opened. Dick saw Jason and Damian rushing pass him to the backdoor leading to the back of the Manor. He saw the blood on Jason and Damian's clothes.

And then he knew, "Is this your doing?!" he yelled over to his brothers, his voice grim and hurt.

His younger brothers didn't even acknowledge him. They rushed past him.

Dick ran after them. "Hey! Jay! Dami!"

He stopped when Jason handed him a shovel.

Dick looked at him in confusion. "What?"

Jason wordless asked him to follow him. Beside him walked Damian, also having a shovel in his hands. They followed Jason where he stopped before their father's grave.

Dick swallowed back the panic that threatened to overcome him.

Jason went ahead and started digging his father's grave.

It took a moment for Dick to regain control of his emotions. He quickly tried to stop his brother from doing whatever he was planning to their father's grave. "Jason! Stop! What the fuck are you doing?!" he rarely cursed, but this seemed like an awful time to start.

Jason pointedly ignored him, instead he dug out some more dirt. Damian took one look at Dick before following Jason and he too started digging.

Dick doesn't know what to do. Everything was spiraling out of control. First, the Joker's almost mutilated corpse, no doubt he was somewhat tortured first being killed. And knowing that his own brothers were the one to have done it? He couldn't bear looking at them and seeing the same ones in front of him. He could barely recognize them anymore. Where had his brothers gone? Who were these people in front of him?

"Please...just...stop..."

But he was ignored.

Dick couldn't contain his tears anymore. He broke down. He fell on his knees and cried. The weight of his responsibility laid heavy on his shoulders. He couldn't take it anymore.

Damian paused upon seeing his brother break down. The one he had looked up into, his strong brother, breaking in front of him. He frowned and looked at Jason for help.

Jason didn't stop digging. "There was no body."

Dick's tears came to a sudden halt. His mind restarting. Jason just juggled a missing piece in front of him. And like a cat to a catnip, his mind latched into it. "What?"

"A human body can't turn to ash in that explosion. It wasn't enough."

Damian then continued his digging with a new found vigor. Adrenaline pulsed in his veins. A little hope flickered in his heart.

A part of Dick was hesitation, "But—The fire—"

"It's not enough!" Jason yelled over. They were almost done with the digging. "There isn't a body." he repeated, like a mantra.

Then a pang, they have reached the end. Jason had struck the tip of the coffin. He and Damian both used their strength to pull the casket open.

There laid inside a parchment. An invitation.

Damian paled.

Jason picked it up. The front was bare, nothing written. He turned it over. And in the back he saw printed coordinates.

He showed it to his older brother.

And for the first time since his father's death, Dick felt a different emotion than melancholic sadness.

He felt anger.

In the Cave.

Tim was doing his nightly preparation in the Cave again. He was crash coursing his way through business management. It was only these days that he appreciated that he had taken his father's lessons and at least partially prepared himself in taking over the company (though he was still underaged).

He had seen the news upon the Joker's death. It was truly more of a slaughter, an execution-torture than simple hit. He knew that it was his brothers, Jason judging by the bullet, and...even Damian. A part of him had felt relieved, knowing that the threat is already gone, even commended his brothers for what they've done with the clown.

At least he suffered, a part of him whispered. He deserved nothing but a painful death.

Yet that is also what scared him. That just as his brothers, he could be that cruel.

He was saved from his mussing by loud echoes of footsteps in the Cave. He turned around and saw his brothers running towards him. He was about to open his mouth to ask but suddenly Jason was in front of him, he splat a piece of parchment in the table in front of Tim.

Tim looked at his haggard and almost maniac expression. He shuddered.

"Look it up!" Jason yelled, as if there was someone chasing him and every second Tim wasted not doing as he's told, is a step closer to their demise.

Tim flinched upon Jason's voice.

Jason's eyes immediately calmed—and softened.

Tim wasn't able to see the change for he had already input the coordinates in the computer. The computer processed the information. A map appeared in the monitor. And a searching commence.

The map then refocused and zoomed in towards the location. It showed an isolated castle surrounded by mountains.

Tim gaped, "What—what is that?"

"The base of operations of our enemies," Jason answered.

Dick and Tim both looked at him in confusion.

Jason looked at them and explained, "The Joker—he was working for someone."

Tim gasped. "A mercenary."

Jason nodded. "He said he had a contact. And that they were the one who ordered the kidnapping of Dad."

Tim's blood boiled in anger. So there was something going on. Something that he had missed. "But why?!"

"It's because of me," Damian spoke beside him. All eyes turned to the younger. Jason looked as if he wanted to stop the younger from speaking, but made no move to do so.

Damian closed his eyes, and swallowed back his tears. "It was an invitation. For an Al Ghul."

Silence greeted him. It was the calm before the storm.

The storm that is in the form of his older brother, Tim. "They killed Dad for you?!" he felt betrayed. All of their grief caused by their little brother. He didn't even notice that he had already stood up and was pushing Damian.

Jason placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to stop him. "Tim!"

But Tim brushed it off. "Dad died because of you!" he accused his younger brother. All of his suppressed grief and sadness being transformed into anger. And he couldn't restrain it anymore. His emotions overcoming him. " You killed him!"

When the situation seemed to become worse, Dick stood between Tim and Damian, shielding the younger from the older. Damian was silent, making no moves to defend himself. And it worried Dick. "It's not his fault," Dick said, his voice steady and kind, hoping that serenity will calm down Tim.

But it didn't. Somehow, it angered his brother even more. "How can you say that?! Dad was gone because of him!" he yelled, pointing at Damian. He looked like he wanted to jump before Dick and physically engage the younger into combat.

Jason had enough. He forcefully turned Tim's anger to him. "There was no body!" he yelled, hoping that the puzzle would calm him.

The absurdity and almost out-of-place sentence rattled Tim. It made him pause, and like a child who was in the middle of a tantrum that was suddenly shown a glittering puzzle, he paused to ask, "What?"

"We didn't have a body to bury, remember?" Jason appealed.

Tim's mind ran in calculations. His eyes widened upon the implication settling in. Due to his grief and shock, he had failed to recognize the illogicality of the event. How come there wasn't anything left of their father? Yet his father's golden watch remained?

Upon calming down, Tim felt like a jerk. It was stupid of him to blame his brother. How can it be Damian's fault when he didn't know about the attack? When there was no indication of it? Wasn't Damian also the first to offer to come with Bruce in Ethiopia? His brother loved their father just as he does.

He looked at Damian who was once again lost in his silence. There were tears in his cheeks but he looked as if he didn't feel it. His eyes were empty, devoid of anything else.

Tim walked towards his brother. "I'm sorry," the apology came easy on his lips, "I shouldn't have done that. It's not...It's not your fault."

Damian nodded, but it looked like the words didn't really reach him. He nodded merely because it was what is expected of him, to pretend as if he was stoic and words don't affect him.

Tim felt like shit. He grabbed his younger brother's hand and squeezed.

Damian looked up, his empty eyes replaced by simple confusion.

Tim pulled his close and kissed his brother's forehead.

Damian's body grew rigid.

"I'm sorry, brother."

And this time, Damian understood. He wrapped his arms around Tim and buried his head on his shoulders. His body shuddered and he cried, "I'm sorry!"

Tim shushed him, "It's not your fault."

Damian remained silent, but he never let go of his brother. Nor did Tim loosened his hug.

Beside them, Jason and Dick looked up at the map on the screen. Determination on their face.

It was foolish for them to do so, but they hoped.

Be it with a cold or a warm body, they will be reunited with their father.

Chapter Text

The mercenary only made his transactions in person. Yet for this particular customer, he was willing to make an exception.

He received the payment and the instructions at the same time. The payment came in the form of three full sacks of dollar bills. While the instructions came in a sealed envelope -- in it a letter and a piece of parchment with coordinates printed at the back. He frowned at the parchment but decided to ignore it.

The mercenary then proceeded with a simple plan. Well, how hard would it be to crash a party? 

Those idiotics billionaires who have nothing but money in their pockets, knew nothing but flavoring words and business transactions, were surprisingly not as submissive as he had thought they would be. It was funny though, the way he had to almost resort to slaughtering each of them before getting his target.

Not that he minds a little blood. 

His equally stupid and easily manipulated employees (he can be formal sometime), manhandled their target into their vehicle. He looked at the panicked look of their victim--and saw a hint of defiance in it, as if he wanted to fight back but thought better. 

Interesting. His eyes flashed with its usual odd mischief. 

He went to the victim and tipped off his imaginary hat. 

The target stared at him. His eyes remained stoic, yet there was a tremor in his body. 

The mercenary grinned. And in a quick movement, he shoved the back of his gun on the target's face until the rich man fell on the ground, unconscious. He then squatted beside him and took a look at the man's golden wristwatch. 

He watched as the gold twinkled under the moonlight. Real. And surely costs a fortune. He sneered at the unconscious man and spat at his face. He pulled out the watch and searched the man's body for any of his belongings. He found the man's phone and his wallet with a few of his credit cards. 

The mercenary pocketed all the bills in the wallet and handed the cards to one of his goons. They could probably still cash out its contents if they're fast enough. He then clicked open the phone and saw the four teenagers smiling back at him. He raised an eyebrow at the way they all seemed happy and satisfied. 

A cruel smile made its way on his lips. He asked for one of his employees and handed him the phone and the wristwatch. "Take this to one of our safe houses," he instructed with his rough voice. 

And then the mercenary had his employees carry the target into the vehicle and watched as the one he instructed took off carrying the target's possessions. 

He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. And then, he laughed. 

Oh! What a joke it will be!

Three Days After Bruce Wayne Was Declared Dead. Somewhere. 

Bruce groaned as he forced his eyes to remain open. He had been in and out of consciousness before, seeing at the corner of his eyes what he could only concur as a doctor, probably treating his injuries. 

Yet when he looked around the room, he noticed that he was nowhere near a hospital. His back itched with the hard ground he was laid on, and his body shivered from the damp of the floor and the coldness of the air. The room was clouded in darkness, the only light coming from a window high above the wall. 

He couldn't hear anything besides his labored breathing. He panicked. 

Where the hell is he?!

Suddenly, the metal door opened and in came a man dressed in an orange and black garment. He was carrying a large sword on his back. He had a scar on his chin and a black eye patch covering his left eye.

Bruce's eyes widened as he saw the man. The curious part of him wanting to ask why the man wore an eyepatch in the first place. 

"Greetings Mr. Wayne," the man said with his voice rough, as if he was gargling his words. 

Bruce's eyes hardened. He could feel the ache in his body, as if he had been hit by a car--repeatedly. "What--What do you want?" Is that what this is? Another kidnapping situation? 

The man snickered. He walked closer to Bruce, but stayed within a distance. "I have expected that the Heir will come immediately after the invitation has been sent," he said, as if he was merely telling plans about a birthday party, "I have thought that his sentimentality would've let him straight to me."

Bruce remained silent. His mind coming up empty. He could barely follow what the other was saying. Heir? Invitation? None of those made any sense. 

The man sneered. "It looks like I have miscalculated." And he doesn't look like he welcomes his faults. 

Bruce suddenly felt a foreboding.

The man then shrugged. "Nevertheless, we won't be needing you after tonight," he turned back and went to the door. "Enjoy your last day, Mr. Wayne." And then he disappeared. 

Chapter Text

They found themselves in an oddly similar situation, cramped up in the private jet and geared up with their weapons. Everyone was dreading for the fight to come. 

After they have located the coordinates, Damian and Tim did a quick research of what they'll be expecting when they landed. However, no matter how deep Tim goes, he still couldn't trace the connection of the Joker's supposed customer . Damian, on his end, tried to pull up all of the Intel that he could gather regarding his past with the League of Assassin's.

Therein lies the problem. The League was a secret organization, and the others couldn't have guessed it's existence had it not been for Damian. There simply wasn't enough data uploaded anywhere on the Internet that could be used against it.

They have to be on site. And possibly, prepare to go in blind. 

They didn't want to delay it further. So they prepared as much as possible and packed up their best weapons and some renaissance equipment akin to what they used with the Penguin v Black Mask situation. 

Throughout the journey, none of the boys spoke with each other. There was a heavy silence surrounding them. Even Dick who was usually the most talkative one was seemingly lost for words. 

As they neared in on the location, Damian's memory rattled. 

It was like an old worn-out castle built in the middle of mountains. It doesn't even look like it's safe for occupation, though the map on their vehicle flashed red, signaling that they are indeed in the right place. 

Tim looked back to his brother, the epicenter of this mess, "Do you recognize it?" It wasn't the one that Damian had showed them before, and they knew that the League of Assassin has been dismissed, it's members either dead or exiled (more like hiding for their safety). 

Damian paled and the recognition is evident in his eyes. They were wide and horrified, as if he was a believer and was faced with the devil. 

He nodded. "It's our old place," he began. "But Grandfather had us abandoned it after--" he closed his eyes, memories rushing back to that day they were ambushed-- annihilated -- "it was Slade. He's our enemy." 

Tim's eyes narrowed and he instantly typed the name to the computer, searching their database. A man with an eye patch appeared on the screen. "Slade. He's part of the League too?" 

Damian nodded. "Yes. He was supposed to succeed by Grandfather." 

Dick frowned, "Is he related to you?" Otherwise, why would the old man entrust his organization to an outsider? Though, if Slade is indeed a relative of Damian, that might complicate things further. 

But fortunately, Damian shook his head. "Grandfather has him trained, yes, but he wasn't related to us."

"Why him though?" Jason voiced out what they've all been thinking, "why not your mother?"

Damian frowned, his grandfather's words echoing on his lips, "Because she has been compromised ." He had remembered asking the same question to his grandfather. 

"Compromised?" Tim asked, curiosity getting the better out of him.

Damian crossed his arms. "When she had an affair with Father," he explained, eyes heavy, "Grandfather had thought she had gone soft."

Tim, Dick, and Jason exchanged looks. It was still quiet inexplicable how their father, an ordinary business man from Gotham came into contact with a highly trained assassin. 

Unless--

Damian snickered. "Yes, it does feels like it's made out of a novel," he rolled his eyes as his brothers still looked like confused ducks. "My mother is supposed to kill Father. He is her target . Yet, that night she made a different call. And for the first time, disobeyed her father."

Dick's eyes widened. Bruce Wayne has been a target by the League of Assassin? And they didn't know?

He caught sight of Tim's frown and knew that his younger brother was thinking the same. Well, thank God for their father's charm!

"Well, that does sound romantic," Dick commented.

Jason made a gagging noise. 

Dick glared at him. "I don't know how you have any place to judge when you're the one doing an essay on Romeo and Juliet."

Jason's eyes widened.

Dick smiled. "Yes, I read your papers."

Jason gaped, "What-- Why ?!"

Dick shrugged. "Well, obviously for these situations."

Damian rolled his eyes at his two brothers. Even at a dire time they are in, his older brothers still leave some time to banter with each other. 

He looked out the window and saw how Tim tried to maneuver the jet in a bit distant from the castle. "Guess, we have to test some of our rock climbing skills." He looked sick just imagining the tiresome activity. Yet, they couldn't afford to just park the jet in the front and expect a welcome.

Damian shrugged. "It won't matter to me. Grandfather used to throw me into mountains as training exercise." He changed into a different uniform, almost akin to the one he wore back in the League. He had exchanged his red, green, yellow uniform to an all fitted black with a hint of armory and of course attacked his Katana on his back. 

His three brothers looked back at him, horrified. Tim, more so. Jason then looked like he wanted to dig the man's body and threw him into the cliff. Dick looked like he wanted to get the man back then threw him in the ocean. Tim just looked like he wants to get back to the safety of the jet and literally park it in the castle's entrance. 

"Someone has to carry me," Tim whispered, though already preparing the equipment. Luckily, he packed the necessary gears. 

"I volunteer," Jason said. 

Tim looked at him, disbelief in his eyes.

Then Jason snickered. "To throw you off, first chance I get," he then made a high five with Damian. 

Tim inched closer to Dick, who smiled at him warmly. 

And then they trekked to the castle. 

The Gotham Knights entered the castle through a side window nearest to where they trekked. They swiftly made inside and took in the eerie surrounding. 

The place was lit with medieval torches on the wall. Tim brought his device up and did a quick scan of the area. "Yup. Just like the old days, traps everywhere." 

The others grimaced. Not only do they have to find where this Slade guy is, they also have to navigate without activating the traps. 

Tedious work, but not impossible for them. 

All too soon they found themselves in a huge vacant area from what looks like the middle of the castle. The room was as wide as two dining halls mashed together. It looked akin to those rooms where parties in the old age were made. Except that the room was bare of its pristine decorations aside from one single chair. 

And in that chair sat their enemy. Slade. 

"So which one of you is the Heir?" 

Chapter Text

Dick, Jason, and Tim all exchanged a side glance, quickly rationalizing what their best action would be. They couldn't risk giving out Damian's real identity to the enemy because of all the risk it'll involve. 

But hey, it seems like Damian had already done just that. 

Damian took a step forward and removed his mask. "I am the one you want." 

Tim sighed. Jason huffed. And Dick--just wanted to smack his youngest brother in the head. 

Damian took out his sword and pointed it at the enemy's direction. "I am Damian Al Ghul. And you shall pay for my father's death!" 

Why don't you just tell him out names too huh? Tim screamed at his end. The actual stupidity of his brother! To state your full name in front of their unknown enemy! Oh the flare for the dramatics! 

Jason rolled his eyes and wondered where Damian is taking acting classes.

However, their internal monologues were cut off by Slade's cruel laugh. "What else you mean, boy? I've merely borrowed him." 

An uncomfortable silence surrounded the Knights.

"Though we are planning on executing him had you not shown up today," Slade said, he pulled out his own blade from his back. 

Their hearts skipped a beat. 

Their father….is alive?

Tim's eyes began to water. Hope flaring down in his chest. 

Jason's eyes narrowed. As much as he wants to believe, this could just be another case of a madman trying to distract them. Yes, there hasn't been a body to bury, but the Joker had their father. 

The Joker killed him.

Or had he?

Jason caught Dick's glance. And understood the order in it.

Find him. 

Even if there's merely a strand of possibility that their father is alive and that the man isn't merely promising them an animated corpse, they still have to take it. Yet, they couldn't leave their youngest behind. Jason and Dick have to divide themselves (being the strongest and most well-trained) to each of the tasks.

Jason grabbed Tim's hand and gave him a short nod. 

Tim swallowed back the threatening emotions that wanted to overwhelm him and nodded back. 

Dick gave Damian a pat. 

Damian nodded. 

Suddenly, they threw smoke bombs on the place, surrounding the area. As the smoke came, Jason and Tim jumped back to the exit while Dick set Damian loose. 

Damian ran towards Slade to distract him while Dick took care of the others who seemingly jumped out of nowhere. 

Damian and Slade exchanged combat with their swords. 

Tim and Jason ran through the halls of the castle, with frankly no real destination in mind. Behind them, they knew that the Slade's minions dressed in traditional ninja-like uniforms were probably on their way to capture them. 

They have been awfully quiet throughout their impromptu search. 

Tim was the first to break, "Do you think--" his voice cracked at the end, barely unable to fight back his own tears. "Do you think he's really alive?" He turned towards his brother. 

Jason has a grim look on his face, with a deep frown and a glare directed in front of them. "It doesn't really matter," he said, yet he was screaming inside, "we need to keep our head in the game, brother, this place is littered with traps."

Tim nodded, he turned back to the halls, and bit down a smile on his face. He knew that his brother was right and that he should squash down his emotions so his mind would remain sharp. Yet, there was that aching hope inside of him. 

Hope that the night's tragedy was anything but a cruel joke.

"There must be some control center in this thing," Tim said, cursing with the lack of blueprint that otherwise would be in his possession. 

"It does look modernized," Jason commented, they could see scraps of metal remodeled into the otherwise medieval brick walls. 

"Maybe a hidden room?" Tim took out his device and did a quick scan of the rooms they're passing. 

When the thought came to him, "No!"

Jason quickly looked down on his brother. "What's wrong?"

Oh, it was too stupid of him again, Tim reprimanded himself. He had been lost in the ranging hope shouting inside him that he had forgotten how to think . He sped up his running, knowing full well that Jason could catch up to him. His mind conjured a made-up beta map of the castle, since he knew that place must've followed any other castle's basic blueprint. 

"They have him in the cellar," he said, "Slade had him as a prisoner. He must've locked him in some underground dungeon." 

Jason nodded. Just like his brother, there was hope inside of him. Hope that their father was really alive and they have grieved for nothing . Yet, the logical part of him wonders-- if maybe they're deluding themselves into twisting Slade's words, and that what will greet them, was nothing but their father's rotting corpse. 

Though that is itself better than burying nothing , right?

Damian grunted as he was thrown across the room. 

"Robin!" He heard his oldest brother say, before the sound of sword hitting metal ran across the room. Just as predicted of his well-versed brother, Dick had managed to incapacitated all the ninja goons of Slade that had tried to ambush them earlier. 

Damian rolled over and jumped, slashing his sword to the man's back, when Slade kicked Dick and managed to block Damian's attack with his sword. 

Slade grinned and punched Damian back. "Too predictable!" The man said, laughing as he attacked the younger child. He threw knives at Damian, who had to either dodge or pair it with his sword, the delayed seconds was all the advantage Slade needed to push his sword and stabbed Damian in the shoulders. 

Damian gasped in pain. 

Slade grinned. "You forgot little Heir, but I was trained by the League too." He pulled back his sword, swung it around him before attacking again.

Damian shifted his sword to his left and lifted it in an attempt to block the attack, only for the enemy to haul and turned, a dagger sticking out from his shoulders. 

"You--" Dick didn't let the man finish his words, his eyes hard, burning anger flashing within it. This has gone far enough! First, this vile man thought that he could just take away their father, made them believe that he was dead, made them grieve and almost broke their family apart -- and now, he's trying to take away his younger brother too. 

Damn it to hell. Forget about holding back, this man is going down.  

Dick easily somersaulted mid range as Slade tried to throw daggers back at him. He then used the momentum to attack the man with his foot, only to be blocked by the sword. He twisted in a split second and used his other dangling foot to kick Slade in the face. 

Slade staggered sideways. 

Dick twisted his body and attacked the man again, using his agility to continuously batter the man's arms and legs using his metallic weapon. 

Slade gritted his teeth as he found it hard to par the man's attacks. He was too fast, and yet his attacks were on point. He could feel his muscle twitch in pain. 

However, he was not the one to admit defeat. Just as the man was pulling back to attack him in his chest, Slade side twist and used his sword to slice the man. 

Dick saw the attack and tried to pull his body back, but was unfortunately still caught. He felt the slash burn his arms as he used it in a split second to shield himself. The gash was deep and he could feel his blood flowing down his arms. 

Damian appeared out of thin arm and attacked Slade with a slash of his own sword. 

Taken by surprise, Slade has to pull back less injured himself. Damian then pushed forward, and pulled back his sword only to swing it around to attack the enemy. 

Slade grinned, already having predicted the attack. He swung his sword and parred the attack. He tasted victory when the boy's sword flew out of his hand. 

Damian glared as he let his sword be parted from his hand. He ducked down and pulled out the daggers he hid in each of his ankles, and in quick succession, mimicked his brother's movement and attacked Slade. 

Taken by surprise, Slade was unable to defend against the onslaught of the attack. It was harder to burden since instead of metal hitting flesh, it was sharp blades. 

Dick smirked as he jumped behind Slade and attacked with his weapon. 

And Slade couldn't do anything but accept defeat. 

The Knights then kicked him. His body fell on the ground. 

Damian picked up his sword and walked towards the limped and bleeding body of Slade. All of their grives brought by a cruel joke that this man perpetuated. How stupid of him to think that Damian wouldn't be coming for retribution. 

Joker may have died in his brother's hands. But this man will die by his. 

Dick saw as his younger brother walked towards the fallen enemy. He knew what his brother intended to do with the defeated man, yet his feet remained rooted from where he stood. His eyes lingered over his younger brother's form, he was every bit the vengeful boy that he claimed to be. 

I don't want to see you like this! 

Then close your eyes, brother.

In his brother's shadows, Dick saw himself. The young boy who had lost his parents at such a young age. And not to a simple tragedy, but a well-planned murder . The hatred that consumed him at that time, flowed through his veins. And he shuddered at the familiar pulse of madness. 

He saw Damian raised his arms, hands gripped tightly on the sword already drenched in blood. He opened his mouth but the words died on his throat. 

They killed him, brother. Jason's words echoed in his ears. 

Dick could feel his eyes watered. He was back to that cold night, his body soaked in rain. He saw his enemy in front of him, eyes wide and mouth begging for forgiveness. I didn't mean it , the man had said, lies upon lies building in pursuit of salvation. I didn't mean to kill them.

But Dick knew better. The same way Damian knew. 

This won't bring him back!

But it'll be worth it. 

Dick saw how his little brother's sword brought down his sword, slicing the air between self defense to cold blood murder. He heard his own sobs, felt a tear on his cheeks,

And closed his eyes. 

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne, in all sense, was only a simple man. He was born in immense wealth, yes, but take all that away and he’s just as human as any of the others.  If someone were to batter him with a metal rod, he would bruise. If someone were to stab him in the gut, he would bleed. If someone were to bash his head against the wall and torture him throughout the night, he would—

He felt a heaviness in his right eyes, as his eyelid were sewn shut. His cheeks itched as he tried his best to open his eyes—but couldn’t. He lifted his hand to touch his face and winced when his fingers came into contact with the bruise.

It hurts. Every inch of his body hurts.

He pulled himself up from the stone-like bed and immediately have to lean his body back to the wall. His heart was hammering against his chest, as if trying its best to recharge his body with blood he seemed to have lost in huge volume. His vision was swimming and the ground felt more like water than stone. There was a heavy weight on his chest, as if his ribs were replaced with metals pulling him back down to the floor.

His body shivered as the cold air trapped in the room touched his sweating and bruised skin. He tried to remember why he had come to this room in the first place. The memories weren’t coming to him, it was as if his mind was only capable of storing short memories, for the latest imagery that he could pull up was the man who visited him earlier—taunting him with his riddles, some bullshit about heirs and invitations—as if Bruce would have any idea what the hell they mean.

Why am I here? Why is he not with his sons in the Manor? He’s a simple business man—whose schedules were composed of two things: boring business meetings and family matters.

And this isolated, cold room, spoke neither of those two.

So why is he here? Why is his body suffering from multiple injuries? Why couldn’t he see properly from his right eye? Why are his legs feeling numb? Why is his arm broken? Has he been mugged? Then why isn’t he in a hospital? Where is he? Why isn’t he in Gotham—

He heard footsteps echoing beyond the door, it’s ominous sound echoing in the silence of the room. His insides mirrored the coldness of the room, he felt a chill ran down his spine.

They’re here.

They’re here to kill me.

And he doesn’t even know why. The mysterious man that woke him up have told him that if they didn’t find anymore use of him, that he’ll be killed off. He gritted his teeth, anger bumbling inside of him, surprising him. There was something inside of him that flared when he had come to know how little the man thought of life, how he views life as something so trivial, that killing off an innocent man would barely be a bother in tight schedule.

How despicable of that man. To disregard life as something akin to trash. He wondered how many more lives the man had took. How many innocent lives have befallen on his cold hands? The anger warmed his chest—and he found himself naively wondering if he could do something about it, if maybe he could extract some sort of idealistic justice to that man.

But what else could he do? What kind of justice could a simple man just as he delivers?

The footsteps were getting closer, with it the threat of execution. Will this be the end? Will Bruce finally meet death in a cold room on a foreign soil?

No.

The anger he had felt earlier intensified inside him, like a flame that was fed with gasoline, it brightens swallowing the dread that threatens to overcome him. He’s not dying in this cell without a fight. He won’t be surrendering his life to that wicked man without at least attempting to deliver a punch to that man’s hideous face (though he doesn’t have a concrete evidence of the man being ugly since he’s wearing a mask and all).

He heard someone curse from the other side of the door before rattling it, as if they were having a hard time opening it. A humorless chuckle found its way on his lips.  Stupid man, maybe the really only thing he’s good at is trapping and killing innocent people.

He clenched his left fist—the only hand he was able to move and readied it. He could feel his blood pumping on his veins, every inch of him preparing for what would probably the last fight of his life.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, Tim has once again proven that he was intelligence behind Gotham Knights. For at the bottom of the stairs they were following, was a dungeon straight out from history books. The place was barely lit by the torches scattered disproportionally on the hallway.

He looked at his older brother, quietly asking permission to engage in the unknown place.

Jason’s eyes were haunted with Tim could understood as fear—for whatever that might great them inside those cells. A clean-cut body of their dead father, or an animated corpse meant to deceive them?

Slade was an unknown enemy. They don’t know his motif, nor his desires—aside from his insistence of ending Damian’s lineage, even they don’t know what pushed the criminal to do so—what history he had with the League to desire such bloodshed and madness.

Jason whispered a quiet curse before shaking his head—as if clearing himself of doubts. He nodded at Tim, silently communicating a command. Be on your guard.

Tim nodded and with his scanner device in front of him, stepped forward on the dungeon.

He used his other hand to get a small flashlight from his pocket, at the corner of his eyes he saw Jason did the same, and together they lit up the edges of the cells on either side of the hallway.

They’re littered with empty bowls and disregarded clothes.

Tim expected the place to smell awful, his nose oddly seeking the stench of feces or maybe rotting flesh. Yet there was none, like the place was properly sterilized. It was unnerving and he could feel dread clawing inside him.

“Tim!” He heard Jason called his name. There at the end of the narrow hallway was a metal door. Tim grunted and used his flashlight to light up where his older brother was pointing.

They stood a few steps away from the door. Tim pulled out a small camera from his back pocket and used the technology to scan for any censor or traps from the door and the surrounding.

Fortunately, it found none. He looked up at his older brother and saw Jason staring intently at the door. It was the last hope that they had of seeking for their father in this place. The truth behind Slade’s revelation is waiting beyond the door.

Tim took the initiative and stepped closer. He grabbed the handle and tugged—

It’s locked.

He cursed. He heard Jason snickered beside him. He glared up at him, while Jason just shrugged. As much as he was thankful that the intensity of the situation lessened, he still felt a bit humiliated—which begs the question of why?

Urgh. Older brothers and their powers of making the younger ones feel inferior.

It’s not as if Tim doesn’t benefit at that. He, in his ways, also used his older brother status to endlessly annoy and bully Damian.

Pushing the creative ways of revenge his mind was already formulating, Tim pulled out his lock-picking kit from his pocket and used his favorite one to open the lock. They heard a click as the lock detached from the door.

Just as then, a gloomy atmosphere enveloped them. Tim took a quick sniff from the slight gap, trying to discern if there’s a rotting corpse inside. He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer upon guessing none. He took a step back, Jason’s warm hand slightly pulling him by his shoulder.

Jason was already standing straight, guns poised for any possible threat inside. His eyes were hard and determined, as if he had already mentally prepared himself for the worst.

Tim couldn’t help but to admire his courage. He tried to deny it, but he had noticed how his hands slightly trembled upon hearing the click. He wasn’t—prepared yet for his hope to be diminished, to be crushed upon the emptiness that will possibly great them.

He clenched his fists and hardened his hold on his weapon. He took a step back as Jason took the lead and pushed the door open.

“Oh, thank God!”

Bruce let out a gasped as he saw two of the Gotham Knights greet him. The fight in him immediately diminished, like a fire wisped out. He could feel the tenseness of his muscles relaxing and he brought down his hands.

His heart was still beating rapidly, but he now felt safe, a bit relaxed even. At least there’s a better chance of him getting home. He doesn’t even question how or why the Gotham Knights were here—since he knew that they only protect the city grounds and as far as Bruce could tell, he wasn’t anywhere near Gotham—he was thankful, beyond grateful that it wasn’t the mean man who opened the door.

He looked at his saviors and noticed that they seemed to become cardboard cut-outs, standing by the door. They don’t even look like they’re breathing!

Bruce chocked back his panic. What if he’s hallucinating? What if the doctor had injected him a drug and now, he’s merely imagining that the Knights were here to rescue him? After all, the Knights only patrols Gotham, so it was a big impossibility that they are here to get him. Who was he even? To think that he was worth the time of the vigilantes. He was a mere businessman, a simple father of four, he wasn’t—in any way special enough for superheroes to personally secure his safety.

“Are you—” Red Hood finally spoke, at least assuring Bruce that he wasn’t hallucinating shadows in the room, but he was still confused the slight tremble in the man’s voice. Why does he sound as if he could barely force the words out of his mouth?

Bruce figured he might have appeared worse that he thought. He knew that he was probably littered with bruises and bandages (thanks to the doctor) but was he looking so battered for the other man to become speechless.

He was then blinded by a bright blue light, as Red Robin pointed a scanner-like device on him. He saw as the younger man gripped the device tightly, so much so that he heard a faint crack as the edge of the screen shattered.

“It’s him.” He said, as if he could barely believe it.

Despite not understanding what is happening, Bruce found himself nodding. His panic is slowly morphing into doubts. What if the Knights are here for other reasons? What if they are now deciding that he wasn’t worth the trouble and leave him behind? No. Bruce has to do it in his best to convince the Knights to at least take him out—leave him wherever else, anywhere that he could contact his boys.

He yearned to hear their voices, to assure himself that he was alive and that his boys were safe. Funny thing really, here he was lost in a place he doesn’t remember being to, and yet still fearing for his sons’ safety.

“FUCK!” he flinched as he heard Red Hood screamed. He saw as the vigilante punched the nearest wall and turned his back to go outside.

“W—wait!” it is what he feared. The Knights aren’t here for him, they’re here for some mission. No! Wait! Bruce might do something—offer them anything to take him back to the city. He would beg and cry on his knees, lick their shoes, if it meant that he would see his sons again. “Please—I need to see—take me—”

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his own, he looked down and saw Red Robin standing in front of him. There were tears flowing down his face, yet he was smiling softly at him. He looked so…thankful, as if he was the one being rescued from death and not Bruce. “It’ll be okay, Da—Mister Wayne,” he said, his voice shaking, “we’re here to take you back home.”

Bruce could feel the tears forming in his eyes. He grinned, and the fear of being left behind faded. He leaned down and hugged the young man. “Thank you,” he said, making sure that his gratitude was evident on his voice. He was beyond thankful for the vigilantes. He will get to see his boys soon. He will have a chance to hug them soon. “Thank you!”

He could feel as the young man gave in to his hesitation, his lean yet smaller arms wrapping around Bruce’s neck. Red Robin hugged him tight and pulled him closer, burying his head on Bruce’s neck, basking the man’s shirt with his young tears.

He doesn’t understand it, perhaps it was because the young vigilante reminded him so much of his son, but Bruce let the younger man cry on his shoulders, to cling to him, and hug him as if he was afraid that he was the one hallucinating Bruce.

It baffled him so much, but he was so willing to do anything to get himself home and hug his own sons that he was willing to be hugged for much longer.

Chapter Text

Afterwards, the two vigilantes led Bruce through the narrow hallway and up away from the dungeons where he was taken prisoner. The hallways were dark, gloomy, and unwelcoming. If it hadn’t been for the aching urge to his kids and Gotham’s heroes beside him, Bruce wouldn’t even have the courage to thread these alone.

Speaking of which, the younger one—Red Robin, his name was—had his hand clasped tightly on his left hand. Bruce actually felt rather embarrassed that the young hero would think that he looked afraid or perhaps battered enough to be guided like an old senile man crossing a busy road. But because he was raised polite by Alfred and filled with gratitude over the heroes’ accidental rescue, he never pointed it out.

Better to keep his mouth shut, the last time he did try to run his mouth—

“Pleasure to meet your acquaintances, Mr. Wayne.”

His body stood rigid; a chill crawled down his spine. His mouth parted with a silent gasped. He closed his eyes and tried to remember—

“What—hurts—more—”

“Mr. Wayne?” Red Robin’s young and soft voice rattled him out of the memories plaguing him. No, it couldn’t even be called memories—they’re just hollow, empty, echoes, mere shadows dancing at the corner of his mind.

He took a deep breath and tried again—only to come empty again. No matter how much he tried to remember, he found the memory slipping away from his hand, as if he was grasping water from a flowing stream.

Bruce smiled, easing his face into something akin to untroubled. Having raised four boys, he was accustomed into morphing his face to look relaxed, in a way to assure his sons that business troubles wouldn’t reach home. “It’s fine. My body’s just sore, I guess.”

Red Robin doesn’t look convinced, however. His eyes bore into Bruce, as if they were made of laser that could penetrate the façade.

They didn’t ask much about what happened on him. Bruce had prepared himself for a bit of interrogation, after all he had heard how much the young heroes moved so much like detectives (perhaps even better than the GCPD), and he was a civilian found so far from a running society, in the middle of nowhere no doubt. If the situation was reversed, and Bruce was the one who found these kids, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from asking questions (and adopting them—).

He heard a grunt and saw how Red Hood seemed to hunch over, as if he was carrying Bruce’s weight on his shoulders. The older hadn’t spoken since he cursed out loud back in the metal room, and he hadn’t looked at Bruce even (not that Bruce wanted the attention, but he can’t help but to notice the tense atmosphere between him and Mr. Hood).

Perhaps the vigilante still harbored some irritation when Bruce had interrupted him that time in the alleyway? After all, Bruce wasn’t able to contact him directly, and embarrassingly, he had stopped trying so after his talk with Jason.

He frowned. Perhaps, he should try to apologize? Clear things up?

Urgh, what is wrong with him?! He should focus on his sons! Why is he even being paranoid about his relationship with Red Hood? It’s not like he would be seeing the vigilante on a daily basis.

Brought on by his distracted mind, Bruce wasn’t able to notice that they had reached what seemed to be the entrance from the medieval-themed manor. Harsh freezing air greeted him, and he shivered, only now realizing that he only had his thin business suit worn.

“Tod—Da—d” he heard another voice scream before he found himself enveloped with another hug.

He looked down and saw the youngest Knight, Robin, circling him in a tight hug. And to make things even more confusing, the youngest was…also crying. His tears shamelessly flowed in his face, soaking Bruce’s shirt.

Bruce couldn’t help but to reminded of his son, his youngest, his baby boy, Damian. He would always try to put on a strong front, as if he was older than his age, unafraid of the world, stronger than his brothers. Yet, Bruce remembered that night, just week after he had welcomed Damian in his home, how the ‘young master’ (as Alfred like to refer to him), shyly lingered on his father’s door—and asked to sleep next to him.

“I’m doing it to protect you,” Damian’s small voice said, his cheeks sporting a faint blush, and his lips twisted in a cute frown.

Bruce doesn’t want to embarrass his youngest and ask what exactly he thinks he was protecting his father from, but he had acted as if it was a big deal (Bruce thought it’s just something childish like Boogieman or something) and thanked his little boy for being so brave.

“Thank you for making me feel safe then, my son.”

He wondered then if the youngest vigilante had mistaken him from someone else, maybe Bruce had reminded Robin of his father, or someone special to him. Or maybe he was feeling as if he had failed doing his job of saving others by seeing Bruce’s bandaged body.

Whatever the reason might be, Bruce—a father of four—wouldn’t deny any child the sense of safety. Though it still hurts a bit to move his arm, he swallowed down the pain and wrapped it around the young frame.  “It’s okay,” he whispered, patting the little guy’s back.

“We’re glad to see you well, Mr. Wayne,” Nightwing said, his voice cracking at the end. He awkwardly walked towards them, as if unsure if he was welcomed, as if he was intruding into something.

Confused but still too polite to clarify things, Bruce nodded. “Thank you. I thought I would have to crawl myself out of there,” he said, ending it with a small laugh, putting humor to lighten up the tense atmosphere. He wasn’t lying though; he was fully intending on fighting his way out of the place.

Nightwing’s face hardened. And Bruce realized that he may have said something inappropriate.

Though the other merely brushed it off, he was quick to put on a soft smile, though Bruce could see how his eyes were still glistening, as if he was forcing back his tears. “No matter, Mr. Wayne, we’re here to take you back home.”

Bruce nodded. He tried to walk but was partially restricted by Robin’s gripped on his waist.

He saw as Red Hood approached the youngest and tried to gently tug him away from the billionaire. “Come on, Robin—”

“No!” Robin yelled, glaring back at Red Hood. And to each of their surprise, the youngest snuck out his tongue to mock the older.

“You brat—" Red Hood said, clenching his fist.

“Stop being stubborn Robin—” Red Robin insisted, crossing his arms and glaring at Robin.

Robin turned around to snuck out his tongue to Red Robin instead, though he still hasn’t loosed his hold on Bruce. “I don’t care about your opinions.”

Nightwing gave an embarrassed laugh and held out his hands, “Come on guys, can we please act professional—”

Bruce couldn’t help but smile at the commotion in front of him. The Gotham Knights reminded him so much of his sons—Damian trying to tease his brothers, Jason and Tim being the first to react and engage the youngest in whatever scheme he was planning, and of course Dick, being the eldest, being the last to react and defuse whenever the fight escalated (which happens often).

Speaking of which—Bruce gently patted his pockets and cursed, “Shit. They took my phone.” It was very, very stupid of him to just forget. He had repeatedly lamented on how much he missed his sons and yet he forgot that he could contact them through his phone!

Robin looked up at him and gave a determined look—“Don’t worry, Da—Mister Wayne. I’ll buy you a new one!”

Red Hood snickered and crossed his arms, “And where will you get the money?”

“Shut up! I’m rich!”

Bruce gave a soft laugh, and gently patted the youngest’ hair.

“Is there—something important in it, Mister Wayne?” Red Robin asked, looking shy, all of a sudden.

Bruce gave a soft smile. “Not really—” of course he was connected to the company’s cloud system, so all his files were periodically uploaded in the server, “I just…” he gave a sighed, why is he even embarrassed to admit that he’s missing his sons? Basically, everyone who knew him knows that he’s ad overly dotting father to his kids, it’s probably already in his public profile. “I want to call my sons.”

He saw a faint blush appear on Red Robin’s face. And noticed that Robin had buried his head once again in his waist, as if he was hiding. Red Hood was looking away and he saw how Nightwing seemed unsettled on his feet.

Did he—did he tell something wrong?

He immediately set to correct himself, or any misconception that the others perhaps have formed around his innocent answer, “Well, they worry easily—”

“You have no idea,” he heard a faint whisper from Red Hood, but shrugged it off, maybe he had misheard him, who knew with that giant red mechanical hood over his head?

“And I just want to—assure them, that I’m alright,” Bruce finished. And to hear their voice, he didn’t speak that part, afraid of sounding a bit weak to the Gotham’s heroes. His sons had been worried for him ever since he told them of the short business trip.

They had been right all along. Something did go wrong.

Still, Bruce was forever thankful that his sons weren’t with him, that his stubborn ass was enough to persuade the others to stay behind. He doesn’t know how he’ll live knowing that he had endangered his sons.

“Maybe it’s better to….just show up?” Nightwing suggested, he looked desperate, as if he was on the brink of emotional collapse but is still ‘professional’ enough to look fine.

“And we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Red Robin said, stepping forward from Bruce’s side. He gave a little shrug, “No signal here.”

Bruce doubts that it would be a problem for them, he knew that the Gotham Knights are technologically capable of getting reception in any part of the world, have enough interesting gadgets (as with what Red Robin used to scan him—though he wasn’t sure for what) to use to communicate to anyone, anywhere.

But he was tired—the strain on his body finally catching up to him, and too polite to demand something from the vigilantes.

He nodded. “Okay.” After all, it will only be for a few hours—right?

Nightwing looked relieved. He then wordlessly led him to the small jet that they had. The oldest sat on the front, Red Hood beside him, while Bruce was sandwiched between Red Robin and Robin, who still hadn’t let go of him (even when they boarded the jet, he still had his hand tightly grasped on Bruce’s shirt).

Bruce relaxed on the backseat, though he couldn’t hide back the small groan, his bruises aching. Red Robin was kind enough to offer him painkillers though, which he took immediately. As soon as they took off, Bruce was out cold.

However, he wasn’t sure if it was a lingering part of his dream, but he swore he could hear the faint voice of Alfred…

“Thank you. Thank you for saving him—”

Chapter Text

Tim is a man of logic. He was raised to think with figures and reasons, born from a wealthy and influential family, adopted into the same one, he doesn’t stray away from logic and the comfort he found in knowing that the world follows a structure.

However, that all changed when he saw that abandoned warehouse explode. And in that moment, he wished that the world runs in dreams and fairy tales. Because if it does, then that means that if he closed his eyes, and wished for a different scenario, then the world would shift into his favor. He could live in his false reality—and come home with his father alive.

“Oh, thank God!”

Maybe he was already living in this alternate reality. Maybe he had already inhaled enough glitter and false hopes that what he could only see in his dreams now stood in front of him.

Bruce Wayne. In flesh and blood. Alive. Breathing.

His hands moved on his own, he pulled out his baby project from his back pocket and immediately pointed it at the false imagery no doubt his mind was projecting in front of him. The blue light engulfed the shadow of his regrets. The world halted as Tim counted the seconds that it’ll take for his device to work.

One—two—it shouldn’t be this long. How is it possible that Tim was still alive when he could feel the air crawling out from his lungs? How is it possible that he was still standing when he could feel the ground swaying underneath him? Nine—ten—

Person identified. Bruce Wayne.

No…that…couldn’t be possible—

Jason’s desperate voice rang in his ears, “There was no body to bury!” his eyes wide and pleading for Tim to understand—to close his eyes for once and hoped for something so illogical to be real.

“It’s him,” the words are out of his mouth before he could breathe. His eyes were blown wide, he could feel his heart hammering rapidly against his chest. His mind ranging on its own—how can it be real?

Why does it matter?

His feet walked on its own, and Tim felt like an audience to his own body. His hands reached out for his father’s, seeking the warmth that only a living being could give. He’s warm. He’s alive. And he’s warm.

He could vividly remember the chill that engulfed him that night he lost his father. There was a bursting flames dancing and engulfing the abandoned warehouse, mocking him for his inability to save the only person that mattered to him. Yet despite the flames, despite his mind thinking that he should move away from the burning mess—all he could feel was the unforgiving coldness.

Why does it matter?

He doesn’t care at this point. Slade could’ve sucked the whole room with poisonous hallucinatory gas to make them see a fake reality—Bruce Wayne could still be dead, legally and in truth—who cares?! Who fucking cares?!

“We’re here to take you back home,” because that is all that matters—his father is alive.

Nothing else matters than that.

Chapter Text

Dick tried his best to remain calm, to push all his emotions aside for the sake of his brothers’ safety and just focus on flying the jet. It had become eerily quiet, their father’s voice echoing around the tight space of the jet, mixing with the faint rumbling of the engines. He took a deep breath, blinking rapidly at the moist he could feel forming in his eyes.

No, it’s not the right time, he gently reminded himself. Hadn’t he already failed his brothers because he was too emotional before that he hadn’t counterchecked the empty casket they had supposedly buried. Hadn’t he already failed his family because he couldn’t control his tremor—his grief—long enough to actually lead his brothers, to stray his younger brother, Jason, from the path of revenge and bloodlust. Hadn’t he already failed them enough?

Why can’t he do anything right?!

He hated the way that his body shuddered, emotions rampaging against his chest, as if it was a monster clawing its way out for freedom. The tears he was afraid came cascading down his cheeks, flowing freely from his eyes and wetting his lap. He gripped the steer tighter, knuckles bruising over the leather, and willed back his emotions in—

A sobbed escaped him.

And no sooner did the cry came out of his lips.

“Oh gods,” he couldn’t even recognize the broken voice as his, “he’s alive—” my father is alive!

Meanwhile, beside him, Jason was having the same predicament. He thought that he could hold onto his anger for a little while longer, to let the boiling fury envelope him until it could numb him well enough to not think for a moment longer.

He had killed someone, just a week ago, he had committed cold-blooded murder, all for the sake of finding any clues about who had took their father from them. He clenched his fists, hidden inside his crossed arms. He could feel the ghost of his gun’s weight on his hand, hear the faint sound of a bullet emptying, see the faint shadow of someone’s eyes losing its life.

He doesn’t want to think how much his father was right. Guns aren’t made to protect lives—he was too foolish to think that he could do otherwise. He was no hero. He was no protector. He’s a murderer.

The anger he thought would salvage him, turned against him. Tears feel down from the corner of his eyes, as he swallowed back his sob.

My father is alive…but can he ever forgive his son?

Damian saw at the corner of his eyes how Tim was sobbing on his hands. His brother’s figure was hunched over, making him appear like he was way younger than Damian was. He had both of his hands in front of his face, as he used them to muffle the retching cries he couldn’t contain.

Despite appearing insensitive, Damian knew that his older brothers were both on the same predicament. He could hear Dick’s soft sobs in front, and the faint shaking of Jason’s body. He tightened his arms around his father and buried his head on Bruce’s chest, pushing his ears to his father’s chest, and lulling himself to the melody of his heartbeat.

His father is alive.

He heard the comms coming to live and peaked through his ‘hideout’ to see Alfred’s face on the little monitor in front. He appeared older; the weight of grief evident on his dull eyes.

But Damian knew that those would change. Because his older brother had called to give their grandfather good news.

“We found him,” Dick’s voice was still shaking, as if he still couldn’t believe the truth behind those words.

Alfred sounded broken, no doubt fearing for the worse. “Who, sir?” even though it could be said that he already had an idea who Dick was referring to.

“Him, Alfie,” Dick said, he coughed out a laugh, a wide smile appearing on his face. “Dad!”

Alfred remained silent, though he sat straighter.

Dick didn’t wait for a reply, providing more information, “he was held captive by slade. He was kidnapped—but alive.”

Damian shuddered upon hearing the words, quickly been reminded of the reason why his father was kidnapped.

An invitation for an Al Ghul.

A sickening thought forming in his head—what if he hadn’t gone into hiding with his father? What if he hadn’t followed his mother—what if he had remained in the organization? Then perhaps he wouldn’t have endangered his father. Yes, he might always still fantasize what it’ll feel like to be with the man that captivated and saved his mother, but that is still better than outright killing him.

He tightened his arms around Bruce and buried his head deeper. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s here. His father is here. His brothers are here. They won’t let anyone take their father again.

“Thank you,” Alfred’s voice echoed around the jet, despite speaking in almost a hush tone. Damian peaked over and saw how Alfred was outright crying in the monitor, he doesn’t shy away his tears. He looked overly grateful, his dull eyes now simmering with hope. “Thank you for saving him.”

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor.

It’s almost too good to be true. Bruce found himself transfixed with the road leading to his home. He was well-aware of the lingering stares that the Gotham Knights had over him, though couldn’t understand the almost obsessive way that they fawn over him, making sure he was ‘okay’ and ‘comfortable’ almost every five minutes within the hours that they had travelled together. He was still also curious over the way that the youngest hero—Robin—didn’t stay away from his grasp. The little hero has been adjoined on his hips ever since he had met him in Ethiopia—or he guessed where he had been taken capture. And though Red Hood remained awkwardly distant from him, as if he couldn’t stay within five meters of Bruce yet also couldn’t part with him.

It was very confusing and a little bit jarring, but he had long reasoned to himself that perhaps the heroes are really like that, their overprotective nature fierce with each citizen they saved.

A sighed escaped his lips—the boys reminded him so much of his sons. He was truly regretful that he had readily dismissed their paranoia, perhaps if he had only listened for a little bit, took extra precaution—perhaps then all of these could’ve been prevented. And the fact that he hadn’t even call back at the Manor throughout the journey—why hadn’t he?!

The flash of headache reminded him. The Gotham Knights had insisted that he visited a hospital as soon as possible, Nightwing even volunteering to carry him towards the place, even though he was older and heavier than the guy. But Bruce had pushed their concern asides, he wanted to be home as soon as possible. He hadn’t been able to contact his family and he was afraid of what they must’ve gone through in his disappearance. He didn’t know how long he had been gone, or if his company had informed of his family of his kidnapping—but he had hoped that it was only Alfred that the mad men had contacted with (if they ever asked for a ransom that is, since kidnapping him always boils down to money).

The car came to a halt, and Bruce stared for a minute at the expanse of his manor. “We’re here, Mr. Wayne,” Nightwing almost sound detached—robotic even, but Bruce decided it shouldn’t be his problem anymore. His family is waiting for him, that is all that matters.

He turned towards the Knights and gave a polite smile, “I am truly grateful for all of you. Thank you for saving me,” he looked down at Robin, who was barely holding back his tears. He looked conflicted, as if he doesn’t want to let go. Red Robin gave him a pat on the shoulder. Robin bit his lips and slowly detached his arms around Bruce, then began to wrap them around him, as if he couldn’t bare not to hug something.

Bruce didn’t even notice his hand moving—he found himself patting the little hero softly. He looked back at the others—even to Red Hood who was looking outside, seemingly more interested at the Manor than at the citizen they just personally led back to his home instead of the Gotham police, “if you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to contact me,” he gave his most sincere smile.

Red Robin choked back his sob, he nodded and looked away. Nightwing who looked the most composed out of them, gave Bruce a reply, “Of course. We are glad you’re—” his voice broke, but he quickly hid them in a cough, “safe. Alive…and safe.”

Bruce nodded. He cast a last look at them before opening the door and heading towards the Manor. He looked back as the car disappeared towards the gate. They are truly the heroes of Gotham, and he felt so proud of the boys.

He turned towards the door. He gave out a deep sigh. He’s back. He could see his boys again. His butler—the man he had learned to love as a father. He lifted his hand to open the door but before he could twist the knob, the door opened on its own.

Alfred greeted him with a huge smile and tears shamelessly flowing down his face. “Oh Bruce—” Bruce could barely utter his greeting before he was engulfed in a tight hug. “Oh my son you’re here—” he heard Alfred mutter in his ears.

Bruce smiled and hugged him back. There were no other words exchanged. Just a son and a father lost in each other’s embrace, finding comfort in the warmth of each other’s skin.

Alfred served him tea in the dining area. The butler turned paternal guardian had first insisted on serving him a full course dinner, fusing over his injuries and insisting for him to visit a hospital, or call a physician in their home. But Bruce dismissed the suggestion, he was tired, and he wanted to deal with all of these—the legal checkups, the questioning from the police and even the media (because he knew that for a public figure just as he to be kidnapped in a gala, it would be international news)—for tomorrow, because for now, he just wanted to lay in his home, to bask in the safety of it.

“How long have I been gone?” Bruce asked, taking a sip from the warm drink.

Alfred sighed, he looked down at his half empty cup, “almost three days, Master Bruce.”

Bruce almost chocked on his drink. It felt…longer.

“What happened to you?” he looked over at the injuries adoring Bruce’s body.

Bruce closed his eyes and tried to flash the last few days in his mind, but he couldn’t remember. He knew that he had confronted a clown in the gala—a dull flash of pain hitting his side, as if he could feel a ghost kicking him in the stomach—he felt a headache forming—a laughter, the coldness of a hard stone hugging his face—a man hiding behind a mask—

He gripped the cup tighter, the warmness of it grounding him. “I can’t—“ he sighed, “I can’t remember.”

Alfred nodded. Bruce could feel his eyes roaming over his body once again, and an almost whisper reply, “perhaps it was for the best.”

Bruce wanted that to be the truth, but he could feel the itch at the back of his head, he wanted to know, to understand why he had gone through all of that—“you’re the invitation, Mr. Wayne”—surely it couldn’t have been for nothing?

“Has there been…any ransom calls?” Bruce had feared that there would be and wished that it could’ve been as simple as just that, some thug criminal that is dressed in clown suit simply wanted money from him.

But Alfred shook his head. “No sir, nothing,” he said, voice eerily haunted. His gaze lingered over the liquid swirling on his cup—his hands were shaking. He coughed, his shoulder hunching, it was then that Bruce noticed how old Alfred really was.

“Master Bruce—” he began, but his voice chocked at the end, and he had to pause, “you have been—” he looked up and Bruce saw the grief on his eyes, “you have been officially declared dead.”

Silence enveloped them. “What?” Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that his family had thought he was dead.

“The Joker—” Alfred said, he sounded as if he was barely able to muster utter the words, “he blew up a warehouse and we—” his eyes became unseeing, as if he was watching a memory play in front of him, “everyone thought you were in it.”

Everyone. Oh gods, then that meant his little boys had grieved him too. “Was there…a funeral?”

Alfred nodded, confirmed Bruce’s fears. His family had grieved over him, they had thought they lost their father. The echoes of his own grief when he had lost his enveloped him, he saw his eight-year-old self in the form of his sons. His own cries echoing in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was soft, almost a whisper. He could barely imagine the immense lost Alfred must’ve felt, knowing that he had to bury two generation of Waynes under his care.

Alfred’s tears began to fall once more. “We thought we lost you.”

Bruce stood up from his seat and hunched down to give Alfred a hug.  “I’m here,” he reminded him, hoping that he could pull his pseudo-father from the hurt enveloping him.

Alfred held on to the arms surrounding him, his tears didn’t stop.

“And the boys?”

“They were lost too.”

Chapter Text

The engine wasn’t even off when Damian bolted out from the car. Fortunately, Dick has enough wit in him to yell after the youngest, reminding him to remove his Robin uniform before running off towards their father (who they knew was already inside with Alfred). Damian paused, as if forgetting it himself, before sprinting and tossing his mask aside, like an eager child who wants to play in his computer after school.

“Dumbass,” he heard Tim murmured, yet Dick saw as he also all but ran like Damian. Though unlike the youngest, he had half a mind to remove his belt and carefully laid it in a near table, but otherwise sprinted to his room to change.

As soon as he found himself surrounded by the comfort of silence, Dick was finally able to let go of the emotions he had suppressed. The wave of grief and guilt washed over him, drenching him in its despair. He had failed his father. He had failed to protect him and for that, he and his family had paid the price. And even through their brief moment of mourning, he had failed to save his brothers from their grief. He had failed to save Damian from his past, he had failed to remain strong for Tim, and he had failed to stop Jason from his path of revenge.

He couldn’t become the hero to save their father. And he couldn’t become the brother that they needed.

What good am I then?

How could he face his father knowing that he had failed to protect his brothers? Isn’t it the oldest’ responsibility to protect their younger brothers from harm? To become the beacon that would stray them away from committing actions that had dire consequence? Isn’t it his responsibility to look after them?

A chill suddenly wormed its way around his body. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, wrapping his arms around himself. His body shuddered as he feels tears pooling in his eyes.

—failed. I failed dad. I failed dad—the mantra kept on echoing in his head. He could feel himself drowning in hatred for himself. He clenched his arms, hoping that the pain could at least divert his attention away enough to recompose himself.

Gods, his father must’ve felt lost, hurt, having suffered god only knows what torture he endured in that forsaken castle—because I wasn’t there to save him—what good is his training even? What good is his mask, his strength, his everything if he couldn’t save the person who gave him home when everyone else had casted him aside? What good is he if he couldn’t protect his own father—I should’ve been there—yes, he should’ve ran with Damian and welcomed back their father, who they thought had been buried six feet under—but where are you? Why the fuck are you here breaking down like a child—

He jolted as he felt a hand on his shoulder. What the—

His eyes widened as he saw Jason, mask and helmet off, looking at him with concern. “I thought I—” was alone. How fucking dumb can you be?! He gave a humorless laugh, how embarrassing of him, crying and breaking down in front of Jason. How can he become protect them from grief if he couldn’t even control his own?

Jason looked away. He sighed, as if drawing what little courage he had to talk to Dick, “Are you…” its almost uncharacteristic of him, to sounded so unsure and so out-of-place, “are you okay?”

Dick let out a chuckle, how utterly ridiculous to be asked of that. He just broke down in the goddamn car, how the hell could he be ‘okay’? He caught the sight of Jason looking away, clearing uncomfortable with just how Dick responded.

And Dick…...felt like an asshole. Here was his brother, for once approaching him first instead of the other way around, and he laughed at him. Considering what had transpired before, how Jason was the one who figured out that they had buried an empty casket, Dick ought to be thankful that his younger brother could do what he couldn’t.

“Are you?” he cringed, having heard his voice sounding too accusatory, as if he was angry that Jason had even asked how he was.

He saw how Jason had also misinterpreted his tone of voice. He bit his lips and turned further away from Dick, his hand grasping his own and settling on his lap. “No,” he answered, sounding so little.

Dick closed his eyes and wiped away the remaining tears. He should’ve buried his emotions deeper, controlled his feelings until he had at least welcome back their father. Not this, hiding in the secret basement and making his younger brother even worse.

Exactly what was Jason even feeling? Why was he still here? He was too focused on himself, on remaining composed enough to lead his family back home that he wasn’t able to notice what went wrong with Jason. Had he discovered something while fetching their father? What did he see?

“Jason—” he began, voice soft, the usual tone he uses to assure his brothers that what they said would be kept safe, the tone Damian had comically dumbed as ‘Mother Grayson Voice’, “what happened?” he mirrored Jason’s earlier sentiment and used his hand to gently pat his younger brother’s shoulder.

Jason’s body began to shake. “I should’ve…” he said, but his voice choke at the end, as if speaking the words cause him physical pain, “I should’ve listened to you—in that alley—when you said—” and then he begins to cry, his tears flowing freely on his cheeks, “I should’ve listened!” he yelled, no longer able to contain whatever emotion was eating him inside. He opened his hands, staring at it with horror in his eyes. “If I did…then I wouldn’t have—” he clenched his fists and hit his head with it. “I’m so fucking stupid!”

Dick flinched at the rage he was seeing. He immediately grasped Jason’s hands, forcing them to remain by his lap, struggling as Jason tried to hurt himself. “Jason!” he called after him, hoping to shake him out of this, “JASON! Listen to me!”

Thankfully, that rattled Jason out of his anger. He slowly stopped himself, rampant breathing slowly steading.

You have to be strong. For them, you have to be stronger.

“It’s okay,” Dick finally found his voice. He placed his hand on Jason’s cheek and slowly turned his head towards him. He gave him a soft smile, wiping away the tears still cascading down his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he wanted to assure his brother, to settle the growing guilt he knew forming in his mind, “if you hadn’t—” but he couldn’t say it directly, having felt guilty of not being able to be strong enough to stop his brother, “if you hadn’t, then we wouldn’t have known that he wasn’t—isn’t—there.”

He pulled his body closer to his brother, leaning his head into his, softly shushing away his cries. “We did what we could.”

“He’ll never forgive me,” Jason’s said, voicing out Dick’s fears. “If he knew, he’ll never forgive me.”

Dick’s eyes moistened with tears, he leaned closer and pull his brother into a deep hug. Jason immediately hugged him tight, wrapping his strong arms around him and burying his tear-strained cheeks on his neck. Dick welcomed him and wrapped his arms as tightly as he could.

“He won’t,” he said to Jason and to himself, “he won’t know.”

Bruce was about to question Alfred about the location of his boys, when he heard Damian’s distinct yell from across the room. He stood up straighter as Damian’s short form flashed from the door—and into his side.

“DAD!”

He was taken aback as the youngest literally jumped into his arms. He swallowed back the ache that he felt as Damian accidentally hit one of his bruises but smiled when he saw Damian looking up at him with tears in his eyes.

“We thought we lost you Dad! We buried you!” he said, eyes mirroring the same grief Bruce saw with Alfred.

Bruce frowned. He kneeled and buried his head on his youngest’s neck. He doesn’t even know how he would start. How could he help his sons overcome this trauma? “I’m here.”

Damian buried his neck deeper into him. “I missed you.”

Bruce smiled and ruffled Damian’s head. “I missed you too.”

“DAD!”

He barely had enough time to compose himself before another body all but slammed into him.

“Tim!!!” he heard Damian grumbled, but otherwise didn’t push Tim as he squeeze himself into the hug.

Tim didn’t even speak another word, instead he only buried his head into the other side of Bruce’s neck, wrapping his arms as tightly as he could around their father, yet somehow as if he knew where the bruises are, he didn’t manage to bump into any of it.

Bruce relaxes into his both youngest’ embrace, swallowing the ache he felt as he moved his injured arms.

They stayed for a while like that, each lost in the comfort that the other is safe from harm. That lasted until Bruce almost swayed back, briefly almost losing his grasp on his consciousness.

The two youngest immediately went into protest. “Dad?! Are you okay?”

Bruce once again brushed off their concerns for his safety, “I’m okay. Just…a little tired.”

He saw how Tim glared at his bruises, biting his lips as if he wanted to protest more but deciding not to. Meanwhile, he felt Damian pushing his body upwards, lifting with his little strength a grown man like Bruce. The father laughed at his little boy’s antics.

“Bed now, Dad! Up you go!” he sounded so serious, as if he would carry his father on his little back.

Bruce chuckled in amusement. “I’m up, I’m up,” he said, chest feeling lighter as he watched gleefully as Damian guided his father back to bed. Bruce brushed Tim’s head as the other kept his arms glued around him, walking on his pace towards the bedroom.

As they pass the empty living room, Bruce couldn’t help but to scan the area for his other two boys, Dick and Jason, but was disappointed not to see them. He strained his ears, ignoring the short argument that is all too familiar with his too youngest, hoping to hear anything that will clue him on the location of the two older boys.

But alas, even as they have reached his bedroom, he wasn’t able to catch a glimpse nor hear the other two. He looked down at Damian, who was opening the door while his other hand was grasping Bruce’s shirt, and Tim who was still adamant on wrapping his arms around Bruce’s waist, and briefly wondered if he would’ve done the same if some miracle his father had come back that night without a bullet on his head.

“Come on Tim! Let go!” he smiled as he saw Damian trying to pry Tim’s arms away from Bruce’s waist.

“No!” Tim glared back, “you had your time earlier. It’s my turn!” he argued back.

Earlier? Bruce wondered; Tim must’ve meant that brief moment when Damian had hugged him.

Damian gritted his teeth, looking as if he’s ready to fight Tim. Tim, as usual, merely glared back, unperturbed.

Bruce sighed. Before a fight erupt between the two, he grabbed Damian and hugged him close. He smiled at the youngest while Damian merely pouted. He hugged his sons close for another few minutes before letting go. “We must rest,” he said, smiling down at them. He thought that the other two would understand the weariness in his tone and move so he could lay peacefully on his bed but was surprised when neither move a muscle.

“Uhm, Dami?” he called over Damian, but the youngest merely shook his head and buried his head on Bruce’s chest.

“Tim?” he asked over the other, but Tim shrugged and looked at him as if Bruce was the odd one for thinking that a boy glued on his father’s side is anything but normal.

Bruce sighed. They really must consult a professional regarding this symptom of trauma that his sons are experiencing. His heart ached that his sons had to experience such hardships under his care. He would’ve carried the boys on either of his arms but because of his injuries, he instead merely guided them towards the bed.

The two let go very briefly as Bruce settle into the bed, before reattaching themselves on either side of him. He sighed and merely hugged the two boys back. Not too long after, Bruce succumbed to his injuries and finally rested his body.

Not merely an hour later, Bruce felt the either side of the bed dipping with additional weight. He heard some shuffling. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know who had arrived.

He smiled, finally, they are complete.

Chapter Text

Power. Revenge. Eternity

For all she knows, her father had always chased after these three things. Talia looked down on the red wine, swirling the liquid in the glass handed to her. The reddish hue reminded her of the blood of the target she just killed the night ago. The man had begged, as his blood pooled underneath him.

She closed her eyes and took a quick sip, letting the coolness of the drink salivate her thirst.

She felt warm arms wrapping around her and opened her eyes, “For a playboy bachelor, you’re surprisingly clingy.” She teased.

His soft laughter echoed around the silent room. “Is your flight leaving for tomorrow?”

That made her pause. Flight? Ah, the lie she told him. “Why? Missing me already?” she could feel his hand caressing her stomach. Gentle. Perhaps the first time she had ever felt held.

Too bad, this man was destined to die tonight.

Power. Revenge. Eternity.

The three things that were drilled into Damian’s head ever since he was born. A child who has never been allowed to become one. The moment that he was able to walk, he was taken away from his mother’s hands and was trained meticulously by his grandfather.

“You are to succeed where your Mother had failed,” his grandfather had told him, eyes stern, voice devoid of any familiarity. He looked down on him, as if he had already disappointed him.

Damian’s eyes watered but he refused to cry. Showing weakness would merely result in bruises that will take weeks to heal. Bruises meant that he wouldn’t be able to perform his kata well. Not being able to perform his kata well meant that he’ll have more bruises—and thus the cycle would go on.

“Harder!” his grandfather’s voice loomed over the underground cave. The voice sent shivers down his spine, rattling his concentration too much that he wasn’t able to effectively block the swing of the weapon right in front of him. He was hit straight by the side of his head and his small, fragile young body was flung across to the other wall.

He coughed out blood.

He tried to sit straight, to pull his wrecked body from the wall. Yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t pull his weight up.  He felt blood dripping down from the back of his head, and the crackling of his ribs.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

He saw his grandfather’s feet stopping in front of him. And with one last push, he lifted his head--only to see the disappointment in his grandfather’s eyes.

Ra Al Ghul looked unforgiving; his wrath barely concealed in his eyes. “Pathetic.” he spoke, finality in his words.

“Just like your father.”

Power. Revenge. Eternity.

In his mother’s embrace, not once did he hear these words.

Mother was humming a soft tune as she gently massages Damian’s head. He was resting in his bed, metaphorically licking the wounds that he got earlier, his long coat hiding the fresh bandages that covered his body, when he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door.

Please, not here, not in this room--the only place he could feel safe in what he was forced to call home.

“Damian, it’s me,” he was relieved to hear his mother’s soft voice.

“Mother,” he called out, letting her know that it was okay for her to enter, and that he was awake and wished desperately to hug her.

The door opened and in came Mother, dressed in her usual black leather attire. Her hair was set loose around her shoulders, uncombed and a bit wet. She turned towards the bed, not once did her steps make a sound. Her face was devoid of any emotion, yet Damian could see the warmth in her mother’s eyes.

“Mother,” he whispered, not even trying to mask the raw want that he was feeling. If his ribs weren’t broken, if he didn't feel his arm were made of metal, he would’ve surrendered to his childish whims and rushed to his mother’s side. Alas, all he could do was pathetically whimper in his bed, needy for his mother’s embrace like a child who was just brought into this world.

Mother sighed and sat beside his bed, she lifted her hand and gently brushed back the hair on Damian’s face. She opened her mouth, yet no words came out. She closed her eyes and looked away.

Damian knew that he had failed his grandfather, knew that perhaps he had somewhat also failed his father (why else wouldn’t he be here?)—he could accept both of these, and live with the scars from their disappointment.

But to—to also fail his mother? That, he doesn’t know how to live with. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

I’m sorry. The words were at the tip of his tongue, he opened his eyes to convey them when he felt a warm hand closing it.

“It’s okay,” there was a slight quiver in Mother’s voice. He could feel the warm hand wiping away his tears (when did he start to cry?).

The weight on the bed dipped, and Damian felt his mother’s lips on his forehead. Her soft voice echoed, asking for forgiveness.

“It’s okay.”

Power. Revenge. Eternity.

Damian was eight years old when the normalcy he had grown to appreciate was shattered before his eyes.

It was early afternoon, he was in the huge training area of the League’s, sparing with different members—some of which were way older and more built than he. But that doesn’t matter, does it? He should be able to take down anyone, less he won’t be qualified to become the Heir.

He looked at his right and saw his grandfather’s nodding.

A shivered went through his spine. He had been accustomed to disappointing stares from the older man that it’s actually a bit unnerving to see anything otherwise.

Focus, Damian. He muttered to himself. He switched hands and surprised his sparring partner with a quick slash using his left hand. The man went down, a bleeding gash on his shoulder.

Damian had to force back the guilt he felt. No. There is no place for weakness in the League. The man is prepared for the consequences, he knew that he could be injured doing a sparring session, doesn’t he? He should know better. And it’s not as if the man would hesitate if he had the upper hand. So, there isn’t any place for guilt.

He took a quick glance at his grandfather and saw the frown marring his face.

He knew. Damian’s body shivered upon Ra’s glare. He knew. His grandfather must’ve seen the hesitation in him. And that’s not good. He had to redeem himself. He tightened his grip on his sword.

The man’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Damian swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. There is no room for weakness.  He saw as the man tried to put distance between them, his good hand outstretched, a pathetic attempt to shield himself from a sharp blade.

He looked down on the man, to his bleeding arm, and to his frightened eyes.

He should know better—

Just as he brought down his sword for a final attack, an explosion occurred behind him. “Damian!” he heard his mother yelled. Instinct saved him from the dagger than was thrown at his face, he used his sword to deflect the attack and growled at the man who was now on his feet, pulling another dagger from his belt.

Another explosion erupted. Damian glared at the man before rushing to end him. But his mother suddenly appeared behind him and dragged him back. Just as they fell a few feet away, another explosion happened where he had been.

Mother looked at him and touched his face, quickly checking for injuries. Damian did the same. Finding none, she quickly stood and surveyed the surroundings.

Everything was in chaos. There were masked men climbing down from a floating aircraft in the middle of the base. Their members trying to desperately defend the place from the men invading them. And at the center of the chaos is his grandfather, his priced katana in his hand—and Slade.

Damian gritted his teeth—how dare that treacherous bastard shows his face in here?! After attempting to assault his mother and trying to kill him? He was about to run to help his grandfather when Mother pulled him by his arm.

He fought against her hold, for the first time resisting the warmth from his mother. “Let me go! I must help him!”

Mother’s eyes were hard, echoing the sternness no doubt she inherited from Ra. “No. We must go.”

“Go where?!” He wasn’t trained to be a coward. He was trained to be the Heir! To defend the League from invaders. To aid his grandfather with his quest for dominion of eternity. “We must help—”

Mother’s hold on him tightened. “He is after you.”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Damian’s voice was quivering with the panic slipping in his veins. His body may have been trained to withstand an assassin, but in his heart, he was still a young child. Afraid for his mother, afraid for himself.

But Mother’s mind was already made—her son’s safety above all else. She dragged him away from the chaos, “Please, my son. We need to go,” her eyes were glistening and there was an urgency in her voice.

And how could Damian say no?

He looked back at his grandfather, fighting alone—then to his mother and made a decision.

Power. Revenge. Eternity.

“Where are we going?” Damian asked.

They were in a small jet, something that his mother used whenever she had to go in another country for missions. Mother was silent in front, navigating the jet as fast as it could, putting distance between them and the chaos they left behind.

He heard his mother pause, a deep sigh escaping her lips. “Gotham,” she spoke, voice firm, as if hoping that one simple name would answer all the questions rampaging in Damian’s head.

“Gotham?” the word isn’t foreign for the young heir, as Damian had always been curious about where his father lived, he knew that his father hadn’t wanted him (Ra didn’t shy away from reminding him of how unworthy he was for his father) but he has always been a curious child.

He had asked his mother once about his father, and he felt the love that his mother had over him, “he was a kind man,” his mother’s words echoing on Damian’s room. Damian looked up at his mother, his head was lying on his mother’s lap as she softly strokes his hair. She was looking away, lost in her memories, “the kindest man I know,” a soft smile appearing in her face.

Damian blinked back his tears and swallowed back a sob. A kind man, her mother had described him. A kind man who doesn’t want his son. Perhaps Damian is truly unworthy of such thing. He clenched his fists, his body tensing as he tried to restrict his emotions from bubbling. He needed to be better. Then perhaps if he did, if he became worth of becoming the League’s sole Heir, then he’ll become a worthy son. And his father shall love him as much as his mother did.

 “You will be safe in Gotham,” her mother’s words pulled Damian out of his memories.

Damian nodded, not knowing that else to say. He doesn’t want to think too much about how his mother was dumping him on his father who doesn’t want him. He remembered Ra’s disappointing stare—not yet. He isn’t worthy enough yet. He was already imagining how to best explain to his father how he’ll best convince his father that he’s willing to practice hard, anything just so he wouldn’t receive the same treatment he got from Ra’s.

However— “what about you, Mother? Will you be staying with us?” with me? He wanted to say but held his tongue.

There was it again, the aching silence. “No,” his mother said.

“But—” Damian tried to protest, the ache of being thrown aside bubbling inside him.

“Slade is coming after us, Damian!” her mother yelled, her voice radiating with a distinct hint of fear, and Damian was reminded of that time Slade had tried to force his way into their lives, “We cannot afford to stay together. We can’t fight him and win.”

Because you aren’t strong enough, Damian had understood between her words. If only he had been stronger, trained harder, perhaps he’ll be able to defeat Slade, and to protect his mother from that vile, obsessive, mad man.

The silence engulfed them once again. He looked at the panel glass, of the vast eerily calm sky that stretches into the horizon. He wondered, albeit knowing how fruitless it is to, if this will be the last conversation he’ll have with his mother. If she’ll ever allow him to try and change the fate seemingly already written in front of them.

“Bruce Wayne,” she said, voice surprisingly calm once again. A tint of hope that his young soul hungrily latches into.

“Your father’s name…is Bruce Wayne.”

Chapter Text

Damian was dropped off near the city. Her mother giving him a one last hug before flying off again, too afraid that their pursuers will manage to catch up to them.

He looked wordlessly as the aircraft disappear into the horizon, swallowed by the dark sky. With it disappears the reality he had grown accustomed to, the burden of being the perfect Heir and the warmth of his mother’s embrace.

He allowed himself a brief moment to mourn what he could only now refer to as a part of his ‘past’. He doesn’t know what will happen to the League of Assassins, to his grandfather that he left to fight Slade, and to his mother that will try to deter any attention from him. Would it really be the end? The final chapter of his life as Damian Al Ghul?

He has no idea. And he doubts standing in the middle of the outskirts of Gotham City would help him answer that. He looked towards the busy lights of the city and wondered how he would explain his existence to a father who never really wanted him.

He took a deep breath, calling forth his courage. And took a step forward, hanging on to the hope that his father kindness would save Damian from living in the streets.

He wasn’t exactly given a specific address by his mother, and he hadn’t known a life outside of the island the League was hiding in, so he doesn’t have an idea where to go from here. He looked down from the tall building he was lounging into, he needed to know anything about his father. He got a name, that’s good right? At least he’ll have someone to look for.

Mother is supposed to target Father, that means that his father is someone that is important—at least enough to warrant an attention from a secret organization of assassins. He jumped down from the building and walked the busy streets, looking around to clue him in on where to start.

He stopped by an open electronic store, eyes staring in wonder at the figure of a man dressed in latex with a blue bird symbol on his chest—the man was somersaulting, fighting two thugs on the street. The camera was a bit shaky and sometimes blurry, taken by a passerby. The man’s fought as if he was following a melody. Damian couldn’t help but be at awe.

The news called the man, Gotham’s Hero, apparently ‘one of the Knights’ who patrols the city at night. He stared at the figure, ears not even registering the following news report given by an obviously barely restrain fangirl, and briefly wondered if his father was a ‘hero’ too. Perhaps he was also one of these Knights, maybe the leader of this vigilante group. The idea clicked into his head. Yes! That’s the reason why he had become the target of his mother. 

Minutes later, after searching more around the city, after being unable to use a public computer because he currently has no ID to present, Damian sneaked into an empty apartment and used someone else’s laptop instead. It’s not like I’m stealing, he reasoned to himself, I’m merely…borrowing.

He shook his head. Why is he even reasoning with himself? There’s no time for self -doubt! He needs to look for his father!

He booted up the laptop, feeling mildly concern for the owner for not even having a password for his computer, and before even thinking about it, the name ‘Gotham Knights’ was already typed in the search bar.

He cursed. I should be searching about father but—he’ll only admit it to himself, but he was truly at awe with what the man had done. He wanted to see him fighting personally, maybe even to spar with him to test his strength against him—or, though it’s really embarrassing to admit, maybe ask the man to be his mentor. Well, if my father wouldn’t accept me, that is. If his father was a Gotham Knight hero like the man was (though is there a possibility that the man is his father?), he wondered what kind of fighting he would have. If he was as eloquent and as precise with his movements as the man in the news.

Gotham Knights is composed of three heroes: Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin. The article stated, attaching a picture for reference. He saw how each of the Knights had a bird-like symbol on their chest. He wandered what was the significance of it.

Okay, that’s enough—he stopped himself before he could scroll further down in the deep hole that is the mystery of the Knights. He had other pressing matters to look into. He looked around the dark and empty apartment and wondered if he could crash in here if his father decided not to accept him.

He clicked the backspace until the search bar became empty. This is it. He took a deep breath and typed in, Bruce Wayne, before hitting enter.

Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, richest billionaire philanthropist. He gave a brief chuckle, fortunately he was right, his father was well-known enough to be in the League’s attention and have his records public. He clicked at the first article and saw the background of a large Manor, cross referencing in the Gotham map to locate the location. He saw how extensive the billionaire’s lists of charities are (and those that are inspired by his actions which was named after him), and all the funding he had of some interesting research. Wayne Enterprise, basically a globally competitive conglomerate.

Bruce Wayne Adopts Circus Boy. Before he could stop himself, he clicked on the feature article on the side. He saw the image of Bruce with a blue-eyed child who was roughly around Damian’s age. Something in his heart twisted at the image of the child standing beside the father that isn’t his. His mother was right though, his father is truly kind enough to adopt an orphan child years ago. He looked at the year. It was almost two decades ago.

Bruce Wayne Has A Secret Child? Damian’s heart plummeted upon seeing the title in the next article (why he was still browsing his father’s history instead of confronting the man, he has no idea). Is this the reason his father rejected him? Too embarrassed having caught by the world having an affair with an unknown woman? He doesn’t know if it he should glad or dejected that the article was dated merely years after the first adoption.

Before he could close the computer, one last article caught his eyes. Bruce Wayne: Another Adoption or a Conglomerate Power Move? Accompanying it is a picture of Bruce with a child he was trying to hide from the camera. Damian focused on the green eyes glaring down at the floor, fist clenching tightly.

Father adopted children of his age. Yet he doesn’t want a son of his blood. Damian wanted to shout. What is wrong with me?! Why don’t you want me?! What had he done wrong that his father wouldn’t want to take him in? Does he even know that Damian exists? Or was his mother wrong and that his father wasn’t the kind man she had come to know?

It was beneath an Al Ghul to feel…insecure, yet Ra’s words couldn’t part from his head, clouding him with doubts. Is his mother right in sending him here? Or was she delusion by her brief moment with Wayne to think that he would accept a son?

He shut the computer, not wanting to see another article claiming he had another adopted brother (or God forbid, a sister). He sighed. So far, his father had acquired already a fairly huge family. What if he was already satisfied with the handful of children he acquired through his years without Mother? Father won’t take me in—His grandfather had repeatedly told him how much his father must’ve been disappointed in him, so much so that he doesn’t want to take Damian in—but was it true? He hadn’t exactly asked his mother if it was true, wasn’t courageous enough to hear the truth from his mother’s lips and Mother didn’t exactly mention anything that would prove that his grandfather was lying to him. Of the brief moments that her mother mentioned his father, it seemed like her memories were centered around their first meeting and never after.

Damian sighed. Why did her mother even think it was a good idea to just leave her eight-year-old son in a city he doesn’t know? To look for a father he hadn’t even met. In fact, tonight was the first time he was able to put a real human face in an otherwise concept he had of his father. What good would it be? To push himself in a life that he doesn’t even know exists? A growing part of him just wanted to forget ever stepping foot in the city and find a way back into the League, to hold onto the past that had faded into the night. But he loves and respects his mother.

And so with a heavy heart, a doubtful mind, and a young uncertain soul, Damian Al Ghul…apparently also a Wayne, makes his way towards the Wayne Manor.

He was only loitering the Manor for an hour, memorizing all the entry and exit ways and the security cameras scattered around, when he heard the soft murmur of a motorcycle engine going towards the empty lot behind the Manor. Fortunately, Damian was perched in a close tree, high enough to not be seen by a camera (which was placed strategically) or the rider, to see and follow the motorcycle.

His eyes widened when he recognizes Red Hood from the Gotham Knights article he saw earlier. What is he doing in Wayne Manor? Suddenly, the idea of his father leading the Knights doesn’t seem that far-fetched. A hero and a philanthropist. What kind of man is his father?

He saw as the motorcycle stopped at an empty space, speaking briefly (Damian strained his ears but couldn’t hear anything) before the ground opened up enough to reveal a basement underneath. He expertly jumped from the trees and went close enough to get inside just before the ground closes.

What he saw was……simply amazing. It was like a cave, vast and almost seemingly bottomless. There was merely a metal platform with only two vehicles parked by the center, an ordinary car and the motorcycle Red Hood was riding on earlier. There were glass panels with some uniforms behind it—which he recognizes were the Knights. At the center of the cave was a huge monitor, with a computer chair below it. He could hear the soft typing echoing from the center. He swallowed, used all the League’s teaching with clandestine and slowly made his way towards the center, hiding in the shadows provided by the cave.

The typing didn’t stop, nor was the chair turned around. He figured it must be Red Hood, though he saw the lack of the famous helmet on the table. Was Bruce Wayne aware of the cave beneath his home? Was he truly the leader of the Knights? A philanthropist by day, and a vigilante hero at night. Damian’s insecurity morphed into aching curiosity. He wanted to know, right now. He was close to the computer now, almost see the figure hunched over the computer. The typing doesn’t stop and Damian figured he’ll have enough time to see his father before confronting him.

But before he could step closer, he heard the click of a gun—and a bullet embedded on merely centimeter from his right foot. He grunted and looked up, seeing Red Hood standing on the platform above, his hand extended, gun still smoking. Mask on and voice muffled, he heard the man huffed a teasing laugh, “Little rat, what’cha doing inside?”

He heard the chair swirl and looked back to see Red Robin in the computer, his smile a bit cruel. “You think my cameras won’t see you sneaking around?”

Damian gritted his teeth. The city may have called them heroes but looking at them—to Red Robin’s tight grip on his baton and Red Hood’s blazing gun, he doubts they hadn’t dirtied their hands before. He doesn’t speak, merely pulled out the Katana he had, the only piece tying him to the League.

He doesn’t know how he would ask the others. Should he immediately state his purpose? Give away his identity without even knowing the Knights? Risk his card in the hopes that the Knights are working for his father? After all, why would their headquarters be underneath the Wayne Manor if they aren’t being led by Bruce Wayne? It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Upon seeing the glint of his Katana, Damian saw as Red Robin stood from his chair, readying himself for an attack. He snickered at him, as if you’ll be my priority. The most dangerous opponent in this room would be the one holding a gun, who was accurate enough with his shot. His eyes briefly glazed over at the younger hero and to Red Hood.

He was confident he could take down Red Robin, but he doubts he’ll be fast enough against the gun pointed at him. So instead, he settled for the risk. “I’m here for Bruce Wayne.”

Red Robin’s glare hardened. “Oh?” he motioned towards the Katana grasped in Damian’s hand, “and what? Couldn’t find the front door?”

Damian glared at him, feeling irritated for the jab. He isn’t dumb. “Not my fault you got a shitty security.”

Red Robin looked as if he’s ready to jump at him. “Excuse me?!”

Just then a door at the left which looks like an elevator leading upstairs opened, and out came a young man dressed in only shirt and sweatpants. He looked as if he just woke up, he was even stretching his back. “I’m here. What’s the emergen—” his eyes widened when he saw the standoff between the two knights and Damian.

“Uh, who’s the kid?”

The comment hit a nerve. “I’m not a kid!” Damian couldn’t help but comment.

“A threat,” Red Hood grunted, he jumped from the platform in a perfect somersault. Damian couldn’t help but admire it internally, and briefly wondered if he was taught by Nightwing (and if he could also ask the man to teach him).

The civilian man laughed and approached Damian casually. “Come on guys, he probably got lost or something,” he went to pat Damian on the head.

Damian grunted and let the older man pat him, it was a strategic move, he reasoned to himself. If he fought and stabbed the man, the others would see it as a threat (more so) and he couldn’t fight off both at the same time. Though the pat was nice and he felt his heart flutter in his chest.

Red Robin rolled his eyes. “Really? Lost? In the cave?!”

The young man shrugged. “Well, it’s a big cave.”

“Yeah, that we secured to be closed off.”

Red Hood put down his gun and walked closer to the young man, though he didn’t place it back to the holster. “And he said he’s here for Bruce.”

“Oh,” the young man crouched down on Damian’s level, leaning closer. “What for?” he offered a soft smile.

Damian briefly wondered if this guy is a butler and if his father was in his right mind when he hired a butler who is too trusting. He could be an assassin here to killed Bruce Wayne and this guy is welcoming him as if he’s a visitor who got lost trying to find the front door.

But he shouldn’t scuff at the man. He’ll take this opportunity and use this man’s obliviousness as leverage against the other more cautious ones. Thus, he placed back his Katana and pulled up his hood.

The young man gasped.

“I’m Damian Al Ghul. And I’m the son of Bruce Wayne.”

He was sat in the table, a cup of tea served in front of him, courtesy of the young man (who he had come to know was Richard Grayson—the acrobat kid that his father first adopted).

Red Robin was in the computer again, processing the DNA sample that he got from Damian. Red Hood, on the other hand, was standing at the opposite side of the table, arms crossed, poised like a man guarding a prisoner for interrogation.

Only Dick looked welcoming out of them, sitting in front of Damian, a half-drink cup of coffee in front of him. He looked contemplating at Damian, that the younger could practically hear the cogs in his head turning. He cocked his head to the side, “well, you do look a bit like dad,” he commented, for the tenth time.

Damian rolled his eyes. He hadn’t touched the tea served nor the Katana he laid beside him. “It’s because I am his son” despite him not accepting me, the last part was kept quiet in his head.

“We don’t know that yet,” Red Robin commented, hands busy typing on the computer. Damian figured the gremlin was trying to speed up the comparison, or perhaps even doctoring it since he seemed to hate Damian enough. Doesn’t matter though, Damian hates him the same way.

His eyes glanced to Red Hood and wondered who the man was. Dick seemed as if he trusts him enough. Is he some kind of a hired bodyguard who was also recruited by his father to join this Knights?

 “How old are you?” Dick asked instead.

“Eight,” was Damian’s immediate answer.

Red Hood’s body shivered, his body immediately turned towards Dick, “did you think Dad—” and then silence.

Damian smiled. Gotcha. So, the man wasn’t a hired bodyguard but was instead—he taught back to the articles, to the mysterious child that was adopted years after Dick. He must be Jason Todd then. So if he’s Todd, that means—

He looked back to Red Robin, who was staring with wide eyes on the monitor, this guy is Tim Drake.

Red Hood’s fists were clenched, seemingly realizing his mistake. Dick looked as if he was lost in his memories, probably trying to tie in the timeline with Damian’s appearance.

“Guys—” Tim jumped from his chair, standing before the three. He swallowed. “He’s telling the truth,” he swirled the chair to let the others see the result in the screen.

A match.

Dick seemed as if he had already foreseen the results (frankly, anyone with a pair of eyes could see how eerily similar Damian was to a young Bruce and Dick has a perfect eyesight), he crossed his arms and nodded. “Well, Alfie did say that Dad seemed a bit heartbroken after his trip in Russia.”

Damian perked at the choice of word. Though, his lips remained sealed. It seemed pathetic to ask more about the issue. Was father upset because he has to leave Mother? Or was it because he had produced a son he doesn’t want?

Jason sighed. “Well, the question now is…why now,” he still looked distrustful towards Damian, his arms were crossed, and his glare was still as unwelcoming. “After eight years, why did you seek Bruce Wayne?”

Tim was also glaring, hands on his waist, “Is it money? Are you hoping to extort child support from dad?”

Something with the way Tim was glaring at him, closer to his age, and the kid that his father chose to harbor, irked Damian to no end. He stood up and glared right back at him. “I am the blood son,” he began, the insecurity gripping tightly at his heart its almost hard to breath. His father may not have chosen him, but he had the Wayne’s blood ruining in his veins. “I have every right to be here.”

The comment seemed to also anger Tim. He gritted his teeth, hand reaching for his baton. “Yeah? So what? He doesn’t even know you exist!”

Before Damian could throw something at the smug teen, Dick’s yell silenced them both. “Enough!”

Tim immediately relaxed, though not enough to look at Damian with anything but hatred in his eyes. Damian too relaxed his posture, but his eyes still glaring right back at the teen.

Dick sighed. “Damian,” he called at the young boy.

Damian turned and looked back at Dick’s kind eyes. He may not inherit his father’s blood, but he sure imitated the kindness that his father possessed. “We’re just…wary—” he swallowed, looking as if he didn’t mean to say the word, “confused. We just wanted to know why,” his eyes looked pleading, begging for the young boy to calm down and at least explain.

Damian sighed. The distrust is mutual between him and his supposed adoptive brothers, so he censored himself. “My mother he told me to come here. Our place…isn’t safe anymore, so she led me here.”

“And your mother? Is she coming too?” Dick asked, warily.

Damian shook his head. He looked down, the fear of uncertainty still fresh in his mind. Will Mother be safe? Did Slade already find her? Or was he already defeated by the League? Damian doesn’t know. “No.”

He heard Tim scoff and he turned around to glare at him. “That still doesn’t answer why you’re popping up eight years after.”

His doubts echoed loudly in his head, his heart clenched as the reason bubbled up in his throat, slithering pass his lips without hesitation, exposing his weakness on the guys he knows only by name, “Because he doesn’t want me!”

The cave was enveloped in a suffocating silence. Tim’s mouth opened in shook. Dick’s eyes were wide like saucers and Jason looked almost pained. “What do you—”

“My grandfather,” Damian cut him off, basking in the little joy he felt upon successfully shutting up the other teen, “he said…father doesn’t want me,” he couldn’t look at them anymore, instead his eyes glare on the ground, and his fists clenching by his side. A soft whisper, “I wasn’t good enough,” and to his horror, he saw his tears dropping on the floor.

He was shocked when he felt strong arms surrounding him. And then a soft chuckle, “your grandfather is clearly lying to you,” Dick said, hiding Damian’s tear strained cheeks on his chest, “Dad took us in, and treat us as his sons.” He shuffled Damian’s hair, softly patting him on his back, “what more for his actual blood son?” he threw back the words to Damian.

Damian’s body was shaking, he doesn’t even notice that he was already clinging to Dick, his clenched fists heavy on the other’s shirt. “But—”

He heard a cough behind him. “Di—Dick’s right,” he heard Tim’s said, voice soft with assurance. “Dad—he doesn’t know.”

Dick chuckled and planted a soft kiss on Damian’s forehead, “See?”

Few minutes passed, as Damian try to regain back control over his emotions. He nodded, face gritting against Dick’s shirt. He pulled back to wipe his eyes from his tears and looked up to Dick’s soft and kind smile. “Alright.”

Dick patted him on the head. “So are you ready to meet Dad? Don’t worry, I can go with you.”

Jason’s eyes widened. “Idiot! He can’t come from inside the Manor!”

Dick looked like he just blue screened inside his head. He gave off an embarrassed chuckle, “ah, of course.” He then led the young boy towards the entrance of the cave.

Tim rolled his eyes, but otherwise walk towards them. “What are you going to say? You found him on the streets?”

Dick shrugged, “I’ll wing it.”

Tim merely shook his head. He went to the upper platform, where the uniforms were lined up. He took off his mask and proceeds to take off his belt.

Damian stared at the costume with a blue marked in its chest. Then to Dick. With a soft innocent voice he asked, “Are you Nightwing?”

Dick grinned. “Yes, actually.”

Damian’s eyes light up, then that means—“Is Father also a Knight?”

Dick eyes widened in shock. He looked almost sick at the thought of it. “Gods, no.”

The disappointment was evident in Damian’s eyes. “Oh. I thought—well,” he shrugged and pointed around the cave, “since this was under the Manor—and—”

Dick shook his head. “No, Dad—he doesn’t know we…do this. He’ll worry so much if he knew. And you don’t want to see him worried,” he shuddered as if recalling a horrifying memory.

Damian nodded. Well, that’s a bit…disappointing. He thought he could continue training with his father, even become a vigilante under his tutelage. But, it turns out his father was merely a civilian, though a kind philanthropist.

Jason suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look back. “Actually, it’ll be better if you leave the Katana here.” He looked as if he wanted to ask more about the sword but didn’t.

Damian figured he could always spin a tale about his grandfather owning a dojo to justify his knowledge about the sword. He shrugged off the Katana and left it in a blank closet next to Red Robin’s uniform. He took a moment to stare at the empty space, before shrugging his thoughts and leaving his weaponry in it.

That night when Bruce Wayne returns to the Manor, he was surprised to see a smaller version of himself sitting in the dining table with his three sons and Alfred, eating dinner as if it was an everyday occurrence.

“Ah, who—” before he could utter a word, Dick stood up and went over him, dragging the little boy with him.

“Dad! This is Damian. He’s my brother.”

Damian’s face was flushed like a tomato and his eyes were glaring at the ground, clearly embarrassed. He saw Jason and Tim snickering at the table, finding joy in the boy’s discomfort and Dick’s bluntness.

Bruce could feel a headache forming. This is just like that night. “And when this happen?” What’s the pressing matter is how. He looked down at Damian—he has a darker shade of skin, though other than that, he looked like truly a clone of Bruce. It actually looks like he had his eight-year-old-self transported into the future, got tanned, and got introduced by his eldest child.

So, there’s no doubt that he’s his child. But who is the mother? He looked closer at Damian, he looked skittish and uncomfortable at the silence of Bruce.

This is exactly turning just like that night!

And then it clicked—“Natalia.”

Damian flinched upon hearing the word. His body stood rigid.

A gasped escape Bruce’s lips, “Oh gods, she never told me.”

Damian’s body deflated and began to shake once again. Bruce saw as tears in his youngest son’s eyes. He immediately kneeled before the boy and enveloped him in a hug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” he whispered, hugging the boy tightly and letting Dami soak his shirt with his tears.

It was slow, but Damian eventually wrapped his arms around Bruce’s necks and buried his head deeper into him.

At the corner of his eyes, he saw the soft smile that grazed his eldest’s lips.

Yes, exactly like that night.

“Welcome home, son.”

Chapter Text

Do all good things have to end?

If only Bruce Wayne was a simple businessman, a overbearing father of four…if only the ribbons of life remained uncut and untangled, but he wasn’t that lucky. Fate had taken his parents’ life away, spoiled the street of his city with their blood, and his young soul had to bear witness to such brutal crime.

He could barely imagine how it’ll feel like for his sons to suffer the same fate. To believe that he was killed off in a foreign land, abducted before he could even call them that night. And how foolish of him, to think of even calling his sons to assure them that he was safe and that he misses them.

He hadn’t exactly asked how they came to know of his abduction. Was he declared death after the clown-masked men had taken him from the party? But Alfred said there wasn’t any ransom calls, and that the Manor wasn’t contacted by the men regarding Bruce’s disappearance…so who told them, who had contacted his family to deliver the news of Bruce’s apparent death?

“Should’ve lowered the—didn’t think you’ll be this—"

It must’ve been the police, Bruce thought—why am I even thinking about this? What good will it do for him to trace back the events of that night. He was gone for three days but he could only remember the first and the last day. What happened between his abduction and the night he was rescued by the Gotham Knights?

“How hurts more Mr. Wayne—”

He felt a dull ache throbbing at the back of his head. Why can’t he remember? Why was there a gap in his memory? He doesn’t believe that he was incredibly intelligent, but he does know that his intelligence and ability to remember details are at least above average. So why can’t he remember?

Why did he forget?

There’s a glass of tea placed in front of him. It was the morning after he was safely returned to the Manor by Gotham’s personal heroes (and with the number of times he was saved by them, Commissioner Gordon even joked that they’d became his personal bodyguards), and he was scheduled a meeting with his lawyers and by tomorrow the police, to give his testament and to strengthen his records for ‘coming back for being legally dead’. Apparently, one cannot show up after their body was buried on the ground. But strangely enough, there is already a protocol for ‘life returnies’—as if it was to be expected in a city as strange as Gotham.

He wondered very briefly if there was even really a way to bring back the dead, to a way to restart a heart that no longer beats.

After the glass of tea, a plate filled with a regular serving of English breakfast was placed in front of him. Bruce smiled and gave his thanks to Alfred. He was expecting for his guardian to go back to the Kitchen, as with his usual schedule before, to prepare a larger feast for the boys, but was instead greeted with a sight of Alfred looking hesitant. He looked as if he doesn’t know if he should still be in the dining area.

Before Bruce could assure him, or even ask him what’s wrong, Alfred sighed and sat down in the opposite chair, helping himself to a cup of tea. Bruce shrugged the oddity off and continued eating breakfast. He could feel the older man’s eyes lingering on him but didn’t think much of it.

After a while, Bruce began to voice out the question that has been plaguing him since yesternight, “What do you think I should do?” he began, first unable to look past the half-finished breakfast in front of him. He swirled the liquid inside his cup, eyes transfixed on the movement, hypnotized by the simplicity of it. You swirl the liquid and it’ll move around the cup, grappling with the force of gravity and the shape of its containment.

“They…my sons had thought I was dead,” he continued. At the corner of his eyes, he saw how Alfred stiffened. He sighed, “you did too,” he stated the truth. “I want to help them, Alfie. I want to help you,” and finally laid his eyes on his pseudo father.

And isn’t that just a pathetic and wistful thinking. He may compare his experience all night with death of his parents to the grief his family experienced upon his death, but it wouldn’t be fair. After all, his parents had stayed dead, buried underneath the very foundation of the Manor, while he came back to life.

They thought he was dead.

He knew that the best way to approach this problem, this trauma, was through therapy. Maybe dozens of it, just as he had done before. He knew how beneficial it was for a professional, who spent a significant years of their lives, to help you sort out whatever complex mirage of emotions and illogical thoughts flowing in your head.

But he also remembered being unconvinced, repulsed even by the idea of someone pretending to understand what he had gone through. He had received looks of pity, of fake sympathy, of people pretending to care just so they could manipulate him to hand over his family’s empire.  He wanted to understand, to help them as much as he could. But just as that time, he felt powerless.

Alfred’s eyes shone with unshed tears. His shoulders deflated, looking like a man personally battered by fate. “I—I’m sorry, Master Bruce,” he looked away, unable to let Bruce read what’s already heavily reflected in his eyes. Grief. Unrelentless grief for a man who was breathing in front of him. “I’m afraid I do not have an answer.”

Bruce nodded, “I see”. He looked back down on his cup, biting his lips. He was hoping that Alfred could clue in him on the right words to convince his sons to undergo the same treatment Bruce did. Afterall, Alfred was the one who managed to finally convince him to finally allow himself to heal.

It looked like he’ll have to fight this battle alone.

His first order of business was a visit to a private physician. Just as his family (particularly his persistent little boys) had readily reminded him that morning, he went to get a full physical checkup. As per his request, the hospital treated his case as discreetly as possible. They rebandaged him and gave him prescription medicines.

Feeling also particularly bold, and curious, he also had a neurologist have a quick check on his head. He had been feeling some dull minor headaches probing in his head, and there’s a part of him that constantly reminds him of the gap in his memories. He wasn’t particularly bothered by it, but that gap in his memories scratches his mind, sinking its claws on his consciousness. As if there was a particular information that he shouldn’t forget.

Though if his mind thought that it was best not to remember, why should he force himself to? What’s the point of forcing yourself to recall a nightmare you’d rather forget?

It was confusing and he just wants an answer.

Unfortunately, even the doctor wasn’t able to give him that. The doctor had showed him the clean scan of his brain, there wasn’t anything amiss in it, anything that could’ve warrant the minor dull pain he was getting. He even double-checked the full body diagnosis to the brain scan. And still, coming up empty.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any answers for you, Mr. Wayne,” the doctor said, humming as he writes in his pad, “but I can give you some prescriptions for the headaches. If it became too much, you could visit me again for another checkup,” he scrapped off the paper and handed it to Bruce. He then gave an assuring smile, “however, just to make sure, you can visit a colleague of mine,” he handed Bruce a calling card, “she’s one of the best in the field. I’m certain you she will be able to help you with this.”

Bruce nodded and gave the doctor his thanks. He looked down on the cursive name and the occupation written below it. He recognizes the doctor’s name, having been involved with the talks about reconstructing Arkham Asylum.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

There was an address on the back, and Bruce said a silent thanks that he doesn’t have to visit the Asylum again any time soon.

The engine came to a halt as Bruce Wayne parks his car in the empty lot of Wayne Enterprise. The echo rebounded on the almost empty parking lot, but he wasn’t able to hear it over the ringing in his ears. He tapped the compartment on the passenger seat and pulled out the medicine he was prescribed with.

He took one pill and drank from the cold bottle he brought. He sighed in contentment as he felt his headache subsides, the medicine doing what’s its supposed to do. After a few minutes of silence, he felt a tingling at the back of his neck.

He looked back at the empty backseat, into the rearview mirror, and found the parking lot as empty as before. A shivered overcame his body, feeling a slight fear as if someone’s eyes were trailed over him. He took a deep breath, calming the ranging beating of his heart.

He sat still on his car, eyes roaming over the rearview mirrors, trying to see past the shadows of the empty space. His fists clenched over the steering wheel, his senses heightening as he tried to discern if there were people inside the shadows watching him, waiting for him get out of the car. And what—kidnap him again for whatever goddamn reason—

“You’re the invitation Mr. Wayne—”

But there was nothing. An empty space and the silence were his only answers. Maybe he was just being paranoid, overlooking at things and seeing danger where there is not. The feeling of someone’s eyes on him seemingly disappeared as soon as he stepped out of the car.

He took a one last glance around the empty space, still unable to find anything amiss.

Bruce could feel another headache forming as he and his lawyers settle the issue of him ‘going back to life’ or as they'd like to spin it, 'the police made a mistake of declaring Bruce dead instead of MIA'. Some of them wanted to make extra money by suing the police, (and cause an additional political dispute over Ethiopia’s lack of security or something), but he immediately turned it down. He doesn’t want to think anymore of it, a part of him doesn’t even want to continue with the private investigation they had instigated.

Which is itself an irony, because hadn’t he just been moaning over the lack of answers? Of the mysteries surrounding his abduction (because there was still a lack of distinct motivation, he knew it wasn’t just about money, the party was filled with a lot of millionaires, yet the kidnappers only took interest of him), and what happened after.

But his head felt like it’ll crack itself from all the issues he had to deal with. So he took another pill and let its magic wash over the blooming pain.

Finally, the meeting came to an end. He looked over at the huge panel glass of his office and saw the sun settling in on the horizon. His lawyers had all already left, leaving Bruce and only his secretary finishing up in the office.

"Will there anything more, Mr. Wayne?" she asked.

Bruce shook his head, finishing up his glass of water (because as much as he wanted to ask for wine, he knew that he had to have a clear head while going through the paperwork).

The secretary lingered around for a second, she looked dazed, as if having an internal crisis. He saw her shakes her head, turn around—but stopped only to face Bruce once more. She coughed, and stood a little straighter, “Uhm, sir…I just want to say, me and the—rest of us, we’re happy. Happy that you came home safe.”

Bruce’s mouth hangs open, immensely flattered that his staff thought well of his being. After an awkward silence, he gave a smile, “Thank you.”

The secretary nodded, a soft blush adoring her cheeks. She bowed politely and finally left Bruce alone in the office.

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, how bizarre everything had become. In the span of three days a lot had happened, and he couldn’t even remember the half of it. He sighed, he looked over at the time on his laptop and saw that his oldest will be arriving any time soon. Dick had persistent to accompany him back home, he had insisted on even going with Bruce to the office to settle the accounts, but Bruce turned him down.

He was about to close his laptop when noticed a new mail. He frowned, his lawyers had told him that they'd take care of everything else, and his business mails go through his secretary first, getting filtered from most important to least, before being forwarded to him.

What’s more baffling is how blank the new message was, there wasn't a return address nor a subject line. Just a new mail popping against the read ones. He had half the mind to just delete the mail in case it was some virus-inflicted mail, but his curiosity got the better of him.

There wasn't anything in the mail but a few lines of sentences, typed in simple Arial, bold, and centered.

Beware The Court of Owls

That watches all the time

Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch

Behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth

They watch you in your bed

Speak not a whispered word of them

Or they'll send The Talon for your head.

As soon as his eyes read the last word, the window behind him shattered.

Chapter Text

The window shattered; Bruce doesn't have enough time to react before a figure descended on him. Instinct saved him and he ducked out of the table as the figure crashed on him.

His laptop, papers, ballpens, everything on his table flew as the furniture broke with the intruder's weight. Bruce's hands bleed as he crawled away from the wreckage.

"What—who—"

The figure slowly stood up, and Bruce's eyes widened as he saw who had attacked him. The man's figure was huge, broad shoulders covered in cloak. And an owl mask hiding his face.

Bruce flinched under its gaze. He was paralyzed with fear. His breath hitched, he felt as if air itself stopped flowing around him. The owl kept on staring—and staring—it drew up its hands, the knife glitters under the setting sun.

Is this it? Is this how Bruce will finally meet his end?

"Dad!"

A scream broke out from across the room.

The fear in Bruce doubled. He looked at the side, just as the Owl did.

He saw as his eldest son, Dick, threw his backpack to the Owl's body. He threw it with such force that the intruder stumbled on its footing.

Dick then used the table to propel himself and kicked the enemy away from Bruce. The Owl staggered, but it was quick to use its arms to block the attack. The eldest son then stood between the attacker and his father. He pulled out a baton and swirled it to his hand before reading himself for a fight.

"Dad? Are you okay? Can you stand?" His voice was firm, devoid of any fear. He doesn't look back at Bruce, eyes not leaving the enemy as its huge hollow eyes bore into Dick.

Bruce stood up but flinched as the broken glass punctured his hands. "Yeah, I'm—" he swallowed back his fear, willing his rapid heart to relax. He needed to focus, so he could figure out how he and his son could escape this mess. "I'm fine."

He looked around, trying to figure out where the hell his phone must've drop. He needed to call the police, or his security. Anyone that could help. He doesn't know how to fight; he can't protect his son!

Before he could spiral into further panic, the figure twisted its head before attacking once more. The knife plunged to attack Bruce, moving pass Dick in order to reach him.

But Dick was faster, he moved and attacked the Owl before it could release the knife. He then used his momentum to punch the figure and kick him in the stomach.

The Owl was able to deflect the punch, but the kick connected with its stomach. It staggered once more, and Dick used the discomfort to bring down his baton to its neck, hopefully immobilizing the threat.

The Owl came down hard on the floor. Bruce looked over to see if it'll bleed the same as any man but was frightened to see that it doesn't. Dick must've thinking the same because he tried to get the knife, but the Owl caught his foot and twisted it.

Bruce launched forward to catch his son, but Dick didn't even need the assistance. He twisted, as if he had been caught in the same situation many times before and brought his other foot to free himself. He then kicked the enemy, but it caught his foot once more and used it to pull himself up, bringing Dick down.

The two engaged in another fist fight before the enemy got the better of Grayson. It came equipped with its gears, versus a Knight who was in his civilian attire. It produced another dagger and used it to stab Dick in his shoulder.

Dick cried in pain. He tried to catch the Owl's hand as it embeds the dagger but gasped when his hand caught air. "Dad!" He turned in panic as he saw The Owl moving to attack his father once more.

He immediately twisted around and kicked the enemy, forcing it to move sideways. And then Dick delivered another kick, intending to push the Owl over the edge of the shattered window and hopefully on the ground below. The Owl dodged his second blow and moved to punch him, but Dick was fast, he crunched down, used his hands to steady himself and delivered a double kick to the enemy.

The Owl, unable to predict the movement, was caught off guard and was pushed successfully over the edge. It fell down in a silence whoosh.

Dick immediately went over the edge to check for the body but was unable to see the figure below. It was as if the Owl vanished midair. He gritted his teeth.

"Oh gods—Dick!!!" he heard a shout behind him and was immediately pulled back towards the office. His father's breathing was labored, and his eyes were wide and panicking as it roams over his body. "You're hurt! Bleeding!" His father stuttered, his hands hovered above the wound, lost as to how he could help.

Dick had almost forgot that he's injured, he had endured so much worse than a simple stab he barely noticed it. Plus, he was running on high adrenaline as he saw his father got attack. He knew he should've gone with his father in the office! Good thing he was able to insist to fetch him later instead of waiting in the Manor, or worse, stalking his father back.

"I'm good," he tried to assure his hyperventilating father. It looks like his father needs the hospital more than his injured son. He moved his shoulder, as if to prove a point and assure his father that there's nothing more with it.

But the movement caused Bruce to even more panic. He gasped and motioned for Dick to stop. "No! Richard Grayson-Wayne you will stop moving your arm or so help me I'll—"

Dick laughed, finding amusement in his father's panic mode. He sighed and led his father away from the wreckage. The police will arrive soon, and Jason too, since he had alerted them about the attack discreetly when he pulled out his baton from his belt pocket. They had to find out who was it that attacked their father, or if it's at all connected again with the League. 

Bruce grimaced as Dick's hand glossed over his injured ones.

Dick sighed. "And you fret over my shoulder when you're bleeding yourself!" His mother hen instinct shining through as the tables turn and he found himself fretting over his father.

Bruce tried to keep his eyes still and not roll it like a rebellious teenager. "At least I'm not the one who launched himself at someone with a knife!" He raised his voice, the panic settling once again inside him, "honestly Dick what the fuck are you thinking?!" He doesn't ever curse in front of his kids, but maybe he could forgive himself just for this once.

Dick flinched, growing increasingly uncomfortable as his father cursed and raised his voice. He could count barely count the number of times his dad scolded him with such intensity.

"You could've been fatally injured! I know you took some defense classes and god knows what else but that doesn't mean that you can attack an armed man! He has a fucking knife Dick! You shouldn't tackle a man with a goddamn knife!"

Dick sighed and took all the words in, knowing that his father must've still been scared seeing his son fight someone. He bit his mouth and swallow back down all the reasons why it's perfectly reasonable for him to tackle said man, even with a 'fucking knife'.

Cause you know, if I didn't, you would've been dead—but for real this time, Dad!

He sighed and hunched, feeling like his thirteen-year-old self getting scolded by Bruce when he caught him trying to practice his acrobatic skills in the chandelier.

He caught a movement at the corner of his eyes, and his body stiffened, preparing for a combat.

But his face flushed when he saw Jason—in his Red Hood persona, casually standing by the door with his arms crossed. He could see that his brother's amused smirk from beyond his stupid mask.

His father noticed his stare and turned around to see the Knight at the opened door.

Red Hood shrugged and waved his hand, a friendly gesture, "Oh, please continue. Don't stop on my account."

Dick glared at him and cursed him in his head.

Red Hood shrugged and pointed at his shoulder's, "you should get that checked." Though his tone was mainly teasing, Dick could hear the concern at its edge.

He sighed and thanked him. "Dad ought to get his hands checked too," he spoke, his tone surprisingly casual.  

Bruce looked between them two before nodding. He paused before the Knight, opened his mouth as if to say something, but ended up shaking his head. He took Dick by the shoulders instead and gently guided him away from the office.

"Thank you," he murmured before exiting the office.

The police and first aid crew greeted them on their way out.

Red Hood was left in the office, eyes roaming over the mess, fists clenching as the fear of losing their father again grip his heart.

Chapter Text

After the attack on the Wayne Tower, Bruce had escorted his eldest son to be looked after by the ambulance that came with the police. He left the GCPD, and one of the Gotham Knights, to deal with what is now deemed as the ‘crime scene’.

He had better things to do, after all. A higher priority thing to finish. And that is to make sure that he’s son is not being a stubborn ass (like he is) and is actually getting his shoulder (that was stabbed by the madman) looked at.

“I’m really okay dad—” Dick insisted, looking behind at the wreckage as if he’s itching to investigate it.

Bruce scoffed at the ridiculousness of his son. What the fuck are you going to do?! The ugly part of his mind reeled at his eldest, of course having attended multiple anger management class when he was younger and more—unstable, he didn’t let these words got out of his mouth. His son must’ve been just distressed, or perhaps he forgot his manuscript in his bag, and typical of a graduate student, he thinks it’s more important than getting his injury healed.

“Absolutely not,” he firmly said, his brows meeting in irritation and a heavy frown plastered on his face. “You’ll get your shoulder healed or I’ll drag you to the paramedics myself,” not like the emergency nurses were far, they’re actually just hovering around them, unsure if they would be safe to approach the two.

Dick frowned. And then sighed before pointing out at the slightly bleeding hand of Bruce. “You get that checked too!” he said stubbornly, as if the slight scraps on Bruce’s hand from him accidentally touching the shattered glass was akin to Dick’s stabbed wound from a maniac who dressed like an owl in broad daylight, who popped in Bruce’s office just to—

What?

Kill him?

For what?

Bruce could feel the same ache forming again in his head, as if there’s thousands of different noises clamoring and wanting attention—but oddly enough, there wasn’t sounds, just a sensation of getting yelled at in all directions.

He really, really, ought to get that checked too. He might have been physically well (aside from the obvious bruises and broken ribs that was mostly healed), but mentally? There must’ve been something that set his brain off.

After all, he did just get kidnapped and woke up in what appeared like a medieval dungeon by a man with only one functioning eye and a god ego sprouting nonsensical things like heir (and who was he referring to? Bruce wasn’t able to stay long enough to ask, nor see the man again).

And now, he’s being chased by a different man wearing an owl costume. What was he even called? Owl man or something?

Never mind now, he had much bigger problems at hand. He led the pouting eldest son to the waiting ambulance and gently guided him in.

Dick, predictably, tried to fight off, as if Bruce was the police and he was a criminal being arrested. “Wait—why am I—I’m not going to the hospital for a stab wound dad!” honest to God, Dick was looking scandalized.

Bruce rolled his eyes but his grip on his son didn’t bulge. Dick, thankfully, wasn’t fighting off with much force like a man desperately clinging to his sense of freedom, he’s more of just, being a bother and wiggling. “Dad—It’s just a scratch, truly!”

“I saw you get stabbed you shi—” Bruce bit back the nasty word that almost slipped past his lips. He could feel himself getting agitated. He’s exhausted and the adrenaline in his system was waring off. His mind was scrambling, and the edge of paranoia was settling in. He could feel the urge to twitch his eyes and look at every corner of the grounds because he just knows that the maniac man would be back and—

Him catching Dick’s concern look pulled him out from the hole he accidentally fell in. Bruce gave a soft smile, his parental instinct overtaking his other senses, and he quickly assured his son that everything’s alright (and he’s not feeling as if he’s losing grip on what normalcy he had—)

“It’ll—ease my mind,” Bruce said, picking up his words carefully. His fist unconsciously clenching as if he had his world, his reality, at the tip of his fingers and he’s still in control. He’s still in control.

He’s still in control.

“Please,” he said, voice going too soft it was almost a whisper.

Dick sighed, though Bruce probably hadn’t notice it, the younger man had already been defeated even before Bruce had utter his plea. “Okay,” he said, before dragging his feet towards the ambulance. And it was as if the world had regained back its sanity, the emergency nurses immediately sat beside him and Bruce—who had followed Dick inside—and began treating their wounds.

At the corner of his eyes, Bruce could see Detective Gordon talking with his secretary, and the Red Hood standing by the corner of the lot, eyes trailed over the broken window wall of his office.

In the hospital, thankfully for Bruce (and the rest of the staff), Dick had become almost compliant. He was sitting still, smiling and even lightly flirting at the nurse as the doctor stitched him up. Bruce sat on the other side of the room, one of the nurses also helping scratch and put antibiotics on the wound on his hand.

“Mr. Wayne—do we have anything else to fix?” Bruce was too transfixed on making sure that his eldest was being taken care of and noting if there’s anything that the young lad was trying to hide from the doctors, that he didn’t hear the nurse trying to address him.

“Tell me Mr. Wayne—where does it hurt more—”

Bruce was rattled out from his gazing, as if he was suddenly drenched with cold water. He didn’t even had to think, his legs pulled his body up, his whole person going rigid, as he feel the air going out from his lungs, denying his soul of its much needed air. The air around him had suddenly gone cold, and though he was stood from his chair, he could feel the hard floor flattening his face. His eyes twitching as if it’s fighting off the blood from overtaking his vision.

A hand touched his shoulder and he twitched, pushing back from the threat he perceived. “Stop—” he has to get back to his sons—he has to make sure that they’re alright—had to reassure them that he’s alright—

“Mr. Wayne, are you alright?” the nurse who had been healing him asked in concern.

And just as that, Bruce regained back his control. He looked at the nurse, his eyes mapping out the texture of her face, and then around him, settling to the image of his son who’s now looking at him perhaps just as intently as he had been. He shook his head and cleared off his thoughts. There’ll be time for that, he repeated to himself.

There’ll be another time for that—but now—now, I have to take care of this.

“No,” he said, posture softening as the adrenaline leave off his body. He thought back to the therapy sessions he had before, gently pulling himself back. He grounded himself by mentally counting up to ten and evening his breathing. Though, it wasn’t enough to fully subside the paranoia he could feel settling on the edge of his mind and flowing through his veins.

But it’ll be enough. For now.

The nurse nodded and began to bandage his wounds. She gave him a comforting smile before leaving to tend to other patients. The nurses that were also making sure that Dick’s vitals are stable also began to move away from the room until only Bruce, his son, and the lead doctor remain.

Bruce walked towards his young boy and gently patted him in the shoulder. Dick gave him a quick smile, though his eyes were squinting towards Bruce, as if trying to figure out what he might’ve hiding.

He shrugged it off, as always. His son needn’t to trouble himself with whatever nonsense is tearing Bruce’s head apart. It wasn’t the job of the son to worry about his father. It was his. “So, how is he, doctor?” Bruce asked.

The doctor looked at his medical board and gave him and Dick an assuring smile. “Nothing important was damaged with the stabbing. You, young boy, was truly lucky,” the doctor ensured.

Dick gave a somewhat smug smile. “Oh it wasn’t just luck, doctor.”

The doctor gave a laugh at the obvious joke, and Bruce found himself smiling as well. “Well, no matter. You’ll be alright to go home. Just try not to strain your shoulder too much,” he said, pointing at the shoulder sling on Dick.

Dick nodded and gave the same smug look to Bruce. “See, dad? I told you I’ll be alright.”

But we didn’t know that before, Bruce swallowed back the vile reply that popped immediately in his mind. He merely nodded, though it was becoming harder and harder to maintain a smile on his face. As if the heaviness that had lingered in his chest before had come back, and it’s taking him a great deal amount of force not to let the heaviness drag him to the ground. “Alright,” he said, trying not to sound as defeated as he is currently feeling (though it was never about the argument, wasn’t it?) “But you’ll still stay in here. At least until tomorrow.”

Dick opened his mouth to protest but Bruce interrupted him.

“I swear to God Dick, I’ll lock you up here if I have to!”

Bruce saw how his eldest flinched at the moment that his voice had unconsciously rose. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t intend to sound so—angry and controlling, but his mind had latched on to the fear that this is slipping from his grasp again.

He doesn’t want to see his son hurt. Especially if it was of his own doing.

The apology was already on his lips, but Dick had beat him to it. Always the most stable one of his sons, the most responsible one, Dick already had plastered on an embarrassing façade. As if what Bruce had said was merely something of a joke, and that it was just delivered wrongly. “Alright—you don’t have to do that though, I’m sure the guard would suffice,” and then he chuckled.

The doctor looked between the two of them before snickering. “Well, if that’s everything. I guess we’re done here. Kindly just follow me outside, Mr. Wayne, so we could take care of the papers if Dick would be needing an extra night in here.”

“I—” Bruce swallowed back down the words. It usually shouldn’t be this hard to say what he wanted to say. It usually came easily for him to reassess and solve back the complications that’ll arise from between him and his sons. He knew he needed to properly apologize to his eldest, knew that his tone was unintentionally off and it might’ve triggered something to the boy—but the words just died on his throat. And he doesn’t want to embarrass himself further, nor stay agitated as Dick’s questioning gaze remain on him. Would—and if his eldest were to ask if he was alright—he still be in control of his emotions and not let any of it slip through?

What the fuck is wrong with me?!

He moved in almost a robotic motion. His eyes looking at the doctor as he led him out, yet he’s not truly seeing. His mind was still wandering. But it’s alright. He’s alright. His son is alright.

Everything is still—

Chapter Text

It has been…intense.

Though that might have been an oversimplification of what had happened. Dick could recognize the signs of his father, could notice the cracks that were slipping from his otherwise composed face—well, his father had always been an open man, he wore his heart to his sleeves which is why it was easy for Dick to read his father.

The only times his father ever had to hide away from them—his sons and Alfred—was when he’s being like this.

Bruce Wayne may be a kind man but he is still a man, someone who is filled with conflicting emotions and, of course, sudden bursts as well. He was still subjected to his emotions and his fears.

Dick’s life in the Manor may have been close to relatively normal, but just as any other ‘normal’ household, it still has its complications. His relationship with his father has always been healthy and in no way intentionally abusive, but—well, his father always tries his best.

Bruce Wayne has scars of his own, massive emotional wounds that Dick knew he had tried to solve before even adopting him (he may not be as much of a reader compared to Jason, but he’s a good listener, and people at his old home had much time to talk). There was even a dedicated column on Gotham Weekly for the everyday luxurious and ‘wild’ life of the young bachelor Wayne.

But then his father sorted himself out, pushed himself back into the right track (through much therapy and medication—he’d heard from Alfred), and adopted Dick.

Bruce got up from where he had sat on the other side of the room, on the couch where he had been checking over the hospital papers he’d requested to have Dick stay the extra night. He massaged a bit of his eyes before looking at his watch, and then at Dick, “Are you hungry?” he asked, though he sounded really casual, Dick could pick up the worry still lingering in him.

And Dick—he doesn’t know how to really assure his father that everything’s alright, at least on his shoulder. So instead, he simply shook his head. “I’m good. You?”

Bruce hummed, he looked contemplating. “You sure?”

Dick sighed. He’s gotten more tired of dealing with his father’s hovering than his supposed shoulder wound (which barely hurts, that he even forgot he had if it hadn’t been for the sling), “Nope. But if you are, you can order in.”

And then his father can go home, and Dick can sneak out of the hospital to help his brothers investigate the attack.

A silence passed which made Dick hopeful. His father turned around and grabbed the papers he left on the small waiting couch. Dick thought that his father would continue going to the door, a soft reassuring goodbye on the tip of his lips—but then his father only grabbed a nearby chair and sat on it, beside Dick’s bed. He took off his phone and began texting.

“I’ll ask Alfred to bring us dinner.”

“Us?” Dick asked, confused.

“Yeah.”

And then the realization dawned on the eldest. This time, he’s the one who looked absolutely horrified. “What?! Dad—you can’t—there’s no bed for you!” he all but screamed, desperately making his father understand that he wasn’t really expecting nor wanting for the older man to remain. He painstakingly pointed at the small couch and hoped that his father would have enough sense to see that the couch isn’t long enough to make him comfortable, nor big enough to accommodate him.

Bruce, ridiculously, looked as if Dick just gave him an idea. He shrugged, “I can sleep on it,” as if uttering the words would magically make the couch bigger like a proper bed.

Dick felt like he was close to breaking down, “No! Please, just—” he doesn’t know how to properly explain to his father that it was a bad idea to remain in the hospital with only one bed. He knew of his father’s antics and he knew that his father also worries for him. But forcing him to stay in the hospital is already too much, making his father stay in here where Dick can’t outright protect him—everything’s just better if he—

“Go home. You can rest better there,” he said, voice sounding so soft. He wanted to sound as logically and reasonably as possible.

But his father was as stubborn as Damian, probably even more so. “Nonsense,” he sounded calm as if the argument had already been won, “I won’t leave you alone.”

Though it sounded so nice, Dick really doesn’t want his father risking his life and his back sleeping on a couch half his size. “It’s only for one night.”

“No.”

“Really dad—I’ll just sleep it—this off!” Dick said, pointing at the shoulder sling.

But Bruce wasn’t even listening. He grimaced at his phone and pocketed it before standing up. “I’ll text Alfred outside, there’s barely any signal here.”

“Then you can text your driver so he can drive you home!” Dick said, smiling brightly.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’ll take these papers—” he took the papers in his hands, “and ask the doctor what you can eat.”

This time, Dick was the one who rolled his eyes. “This was just a flesh wound! It’s not even infected!”

“Soup it is!” Bruce then walked towards the door carrying the papers.

Dick could only groan in the empty room.

There’s nothing much to do while his father was gone to buy soup, so Dick had settled into just…staring at the window outside. At the bluish hue of the sky and the occasional birds that fly by. The air condition gave off a low hum, making the air around him feel as if it was humming along. It shouldn’t feel relaxing, but it helped Dick calm down.

At least enough for his focus to linger on something else.

Suddenly, the door opened and Dick embraced himself for another wave of his father’s doting—when he got a pleasant surprise.

“Baby bro!” he exclaimed in delight as Damian entered the door, behind him following was Alfred.

“Tt,” Damian said, in his usual grumpy greeting, but there’s really no heat in it, it even sounded—dare Dick to say—affectionate, in his brother’s unique way. “I’m glad you aren’t rotting in this room,” he added, eyes roaming around the room no doubt seeking whatever dangerous device must’ve been hidden.

As if someone could slip in without Dick noticing.

“I’ve been very close to,” Dick answered, he whispered as if he was saying state secrets in a wild conspiracy that he shared with his brothers.

Damian scoffed, he crossed his arms and glowered at his older brother, “It’s your fault for getting stabbed.”

Even though his little brother tried so hard to make it sound insulting, Dick could see the worry behind that otherwise smug posture. Damian had been too obvious with the way he’s been staring intently and with so much malice on the shoulder sling that Dick (was forced) to wore. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, way to go, blame the victim.”

Damian gave out another one of his “Tt,” no doubt figuring out that Dick had been able to read him, and began to sit on the opposite chair beside Dick. “So where’s dad.”

“He went out to buy soup,” Dick answered, he internally cringed, after all, he just forgot to censor himself when he should’ve known how Alfred would react upon hearing that.

And true to his assessment, Alfred scoffed and look like he was disgusted with just the thought of opening a soup package. Dick feared that Alfred might’ve started a vigilante movement of closing down ‘unworthy’ soup sellers just cause they dared serve one of their products to his wards. “Well, mine is more nutritious,” he said, without even a slight attempt of hiding his contempt.

Dick was amused by it and knew that Damian was too. They shared a quick glance and Dick noticed how Damian had to firmly hide his amusement behind his usual mask of indifference.

As Alfred settled his homemade soup and (of course) other homemade pastries, Damian patted him on his supposedly injured shoulders. Dick didn’t react right away (because he’s not lying, as he truly felt nothing already about his injury). But he did hiss at his brother and glowered down on him, “What are you doing?”

But otherwise, Damian merely nodded, as if content with Dick’s—delayed—reaction. He looked over at the pastries and took a bite of one of Alfred’s glorious spreads (seriously, why his adoptive grandfather never considered building a café or a restaurant is beyond him). Damian nodded once again, looking more relaxed, Dick could see the worry fading behind. “Seriously, listen to Pennyworth, brother,” he started, and took another bite, “He knows best.”

Mother always does.

Dick laughed, but kept the thought to himself. “Don’t I know it.” He thanked Alfred as the older man handed him the bowl of soup—he also bought his own silverware, really?!—and began to gobble down the dish radiating with salivating aroma.

They shared a few more silence as each of the brothers enjoyed soup, while Alfred stayed at the side looking smug.

Suddenly, Damian spoke up, “So—” he took a cookie from a separate box that Alfred had brought, “Dad—didn’t go too far, right?” he sounded unsure, as if he doesn’t know what kind of answer he’ll love to hear more.

As usual, his little brother was just as easy to read. Dick could see the little guy itching, his eyes darting for a second towards the door, as if contemplating if Alfred would yell at him if he started running towards the door and into the hospital hallway looking for their father.

Dick knew that his brother’s worries are nothing to laugh out. So he paused in his eating and gave his brother a serious look. “Yeah, he hasn’t left the building.” He may not be as technological genius as his younger brother, Tim, but he had his ways.

Damian nodded. He began to munch on some of the other—there were lots—of pastries that Alfred had brought. Dick couldn’t even name them even if he tried.

He sighed (he had been doing this quite a lot today). He placed back his bowl at the side table and picked up a random bread. He turned it over, it smelled delicious and minty for some reason, though there wasn’t a touch of green anywhere on it, just—he took a bite. Well, he expected to taste mint, but he didn’t.

That’s really not the point. Even in his head, he’s procrastinating. He looked at Alfred and then to Damian, and then to his shoulder going numb from its sling—cage. “Don’t you think this is too much?” he asked his youngest brother.

“What is?” Damian looked adorable with the little bread crumbles on his cheeks.

But sadly, it only made Dick pause for a second before the irritation came back. He pointed to himself, and then to his shoulder sling, “He told me I need to stay the night.”

It had the opposite effect on his younger brother, however. Whereas Dick had expected Damian to scoff and throw in some ridiculous insult, the younger actually stood up and began to look closely at Dick’s injury, worry etched on his face. “What?!” he said in alarm, panicking slightly. “You’re hurt somewhere else? Jason didn’t—”

“No!” Dick said quickly, wanting to squash the worry from Damian’s misunderstanding. “I’m just—It’s just this. It’s only a minor but he wanted me to stay. I felt like I’m just wasting everyone’s time and money—though we had plenty—by occupying space on this room without actually needing it, you know,” all his frustration leaking out from him as if he’s a faucet that was left to run in the evening.

Silence answered him back.

And Dick buried his face in his free hand. Fuck this sling, he mentally cursed. He just made everything worse, didn’t he? His father was just doing what a normal (albeit rich and privileged) dad would do. Worry excessively and throw money at it. And now he’d drag his little brother into his annoyance for all of it.

He saw Damian move from the corner of his eyes, saw the way the muscles of his younger brother flex to prepare for the attack, saw the trajectory of the movement, and calculated the direction of the impact and how strong it could potentially be.

All in under a second, Dick had foreseen the attack on him. Yet because of the trust he had for his family, he forced his muscles to relax and braced himself for the impact.

The trust wasn’t misplaced though. Damian merely hit him on the head, no malice intended. It barely hurt, almost like an indirect twitch.

What it lacked on the physical strength, it made up on the emotional aspect. The force may not be enough to bruise his head, but the twitching of his head rattled all his scattered thoughts. As if his thoughts were mere sands on a glass, the force of the impact rippled everything in such a way that they settled themselves neatly. And Dick’s head—just became clearer.

“Tt,” Damian sounded. He glared at Dick, as if his older brother was idiocrasy reincarnated. His eyes furrowed in displeasure. “You’re not that, okay?” he began, voice hitting a barely concealed anger, “And if someone suggested that you are—I’ll cut them up!” then in a blink of an eye, he pulled out his Katana from his back, as if he had worn his holder before going in (but he didn’t—and Dick would know because he pride himself for being observant—and he swore his little brother didn’t have—)

Dick was obviously alarmed as he saw the blade glistening in the room’s light, its sharp edges seemingly hungry for blood.

Through it all, Alfred remained calm, just peaceful standing by the corner room looking content.

It doesn’t lessen the panic in Dick, “Whooh—!” he yelped, “Lil’ wing where did you hide—how did you—” he doesn’t even know where to begin. How did that sword even made pass the security?!

Damian merely shrugged, as if he’d been known to do this since he was born, as if he’s merely sneaked in an undisclosed apple and not a weaponry that he’s trained to wield and to kill in.

Before Dick could even follow up his question with another question, there was a soft knock on the door before it opened.

Just as quickly as it did, Damian’s Katana disappeared from his hands as if he had performed some weird magic. Dick’s eyes bulged from shock and he barely registered their father from entering. What the hell is Alfred putting in his pastries?! Dick wondered if he had somehow accidentally intake some hallucinogenic drug from the soup he ate.

The door then opened. And in came their father.

Chapter Text

Bruce was carrying a lot of plastic bags, is the first thing Dick noticed. He had both an armful of bags and had to navigate each of them before entering the room. Alfred quickly moved and helped the Wayne heir carry the bags inside alongside Damian who greeted their father upon the door. Sadly, Dick could only extend his neck, hoping to see what his father had brought for them.

His father smiled warmly at Damian upon seeing him and automatically gave his youngest a head pat. Dick saw his younger brother preen upon the contact. His father then greeted Alfred just as warmly with a handshake and a bright smile. It’s as if a part of his burden had been lifted upon seeing the other two members of his family.

“What’d you bring Dad?” Dick asked, though silently praying that his father had only been carrying empty boxes—for he had no idea if he could finish the foods his father brought (Alfred’s home cook meal was already enough to make him bloated).

His face heated up when he saw the dozens of items his father brought in his heavy bags. “Oh gods—Dad!” he didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but he couldn’t force back his tone from sounding as if he’s seconds away from scolding their father.

Bruce had the gal to look apologetic. “Figured you’ll get bored, so I bought—stuff,” he shrugged, as if he hadn’t made good use of his Black Credit Card.

Damian snickered upon opening up the bags one by one. “Lots of stuff.”

Their father sighed, “Well, frankly I didn’t know what you’ll love more so I just bought—everything—I guess. I bought you some books, a new phone I saw, and uh—I forgot what the device is called but the store assured me it has games on it. Hopefully you’ll enjoy—uh, at least one of them,” he looked at Dick with an expectant glance.

Dick could only just stare at his father. Memories of the past resurfacing at the forefront of his mind. Memories of things he had stared for more than a second, anything he so much as to hint that he was curious at, all magically popping around the Manor. At first he had thought it was a coincidence, and god forbid his young mind had conjure an illusion that perhaps its his dead parents’ doing, that someone they’ve became some sort of fairies and following him around granting his wishes.

But no. Turns out it was just his father literally spoiling his first child. Oh gods, he’s back, Dick thought in fear.

It did take him a while to convince his father not to buy—useless stuff. He did donate all the excess to the Wayne Foundation (Alfred helped him with that) and now, he had to worry about all these things again.

He stared at his father, of the way his father was still obviously worrying over the wound Dick had even forgotten.

It’ll surely break his father’s heart if Dick denied him of this. If he said ‘no’ and asked for the stuffs to be returned (he mistakenly did once when he was a child and overwhelmed by the love Bruce had for him), it’ll just make his father sad and even more worried thinking that the injury is psychologically affecting him in some way (even though it was the stress from a lot of things—primary his father’s stress over his already healing injury).

So he swallowed back his words and grabbed a donut to soothe his stress. He could always donate the pastries towards the other patients in the hospital. His books would no doubt be taken by Jason anyway (he recognized the titles and knew that his younger brother had been looking for them). Jason would probably ask to ‘borrow’ the books and ‘accidentally’ forget to return it (or that he even had it). As if Dick would deny his younger brother of anything.

It was then that Bruce’s phone rang. He sighed before going out, “Sorry, I need to take this call.”

The brothers shared a look before continuing munching on the combined pastries at their table.

Bruce gave a quick nod to Alfred before hastily leaving the hospital room to answer his call. It’s probably something important enough to force their father to leave his injured eldest son.

Dick gave Damian a look, by which the younger merely rolled his eyes. “You lament about father’s worrying attitude yet you are quick to do the same,” Damian apparently decided to point out Dick’s flaw and sass him at the same sentence.

Dick’s eyebrows met and he opened his eyes to retort something ridiculous and overly deny the obvious when Damian once again cut him off, “Nevertheless, Tim is monitoring Father’s phone calls and if it was something that we should be wary of, he would’ve called.”

The eldest gaze lingered for a moment over the younger before sighing. Damian did make a good point about his apparent hypocrisy—but can he be blamed? Not barely weeks before their father’s kidnapping and another dangerous individual had gotten pass them and threatened their father.

Dick clenched his fists. The enemy had been too close. And if he hadn’t been there—he mentally shook his head. There’s no point thinking about the what ifs. He needed—they needed to prepare themselves for the next apparent attack (he hoped there wouldn’t be, but one can never be too sure in Gotham). And what had been the point of the attack? There hadn’t been any indicator—if there had been, Tim would know, and then they would know.

Barely days after Bruce had been declared alive and there was an attack on him? Was this personally? Was the enemy looking out for revenge to the Wayne? But if it had been, then what’s with the costume? Why wait till Bruce came back in Gotham—why didn’t he attack when Bruce was at his most vulnerable—injured and cold, imprisoned in that filthy dungeon—

This time, he was too lost in his thoughts to hold control his instinct. His body moved on its own and he had moved his head back an inch before his vision could even recognize that Damian had moved to hit him.

“Tt,” Damian rolled his eyes but he pulled back his arms to cross them. “I knew you saw me earlier,” he told him. He stood straighter, “Anyway, you need not to worry yourself silly, brother. We can take over patrol while you recover.”

Dick shook his head, he needed to remain focus, and not let his brothers worry over him too. He gave an easy laugh and decided to tease his younger brother to alleviate the mood. He snickered at his brother, placed his good hand over his heart as if physically wounded, and flashed his eyes as if he had been mourning, “But I’m the leader of the Knights! How could you ever function without a leader?”

As predicted, Damian bit his teasing and glared hard at him. Dick readied himself for an onslaught of insult but he grew unease when the younger instead gave a cruel smirk.

And then it happened. Damian opened his mouth and yelled, “Dad! Dick said he also hurt his ankle—”

Dick immediately put up his hand to cover Damian’s treacherous mouth. He leaned down on him and whispered frantically, “You know he’ll make me use crutches!”

Damian only gave a smug look.

They heard Alfred chuckled on the corner where he stood, “Ah, this truly brings back memories,” he produced a white handkerchief and dapped his fake tears.

Dick removed his hand and gave a weird look at his pseudo grandfather and then to his Damian, silently asking if the younger knew what the butler must’ve been talking about.

Damian rolled his eyes, how would I know? I’m the youngest!

Dick shrugged.

Alfred merely smiled. He walked closer and gently placed his hand on Dick’s shoulders. “Well, you were right, Master Dick. You’ve always been spoiled.”

Dick groaned. Oh, he knew, alright.

Alfred gave Damian (who had looked intently at the older man, as if straining his ears to listen at the other’s every word) an amused look and then continued his tale, “When Master Bruce first took you in,” he gave a soft look at Dick (which made the eldest son blush), He always, always, bought you everything your eye catches.”

At the corner of his eyes, he could see his younger self’s shadow rapidly shaking his head as a younger version of Bruce gently offer him the toy he was looking at earlier.

“You weren’t talking at that time, when we first took you in,” Alfred told looking in between to Dick and Damian, but his words were mostly directed to the youngest who wasn’t privy to the memories he and Dick shared. “So Master Bruce had interpreted your silence as shyness.”

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to ask for things, Alfie.

I’m sure he’ll come around then, sir.

Dick shook his head. At the corner of his eyes, he could see the shadow of his younger self looking himself in his room. He could hear the faint echo of his father’s gently and loving voice calling for him just beyond the door. “Richard? Please—I—” But the younger him wasn’t listening. He took his notebook, his bag, and leaned down to grab his secret box underneath his bed. “Dinner is by the table—”

He shook his head. “I—” he could feel vile on his tongue, “I wasn’t.”

Alfred merely hummed. He gave Dick a look, “Yes. I’ve long figured. But I didn’t want to impose on Bruce’s—Master Bruce’s emotions. He had been—afraid, after all.”

Dick’s eyes widened, he saw the faint image of his younger self opening up the window behind Alfred’s. But he avoided his gaze and instead focused them on his grandfather’s lingering gaze, “Afraid?” confusion etched on every part of him.

Alfred must’ve seen something in him because he frowned. “Yes. He’s afraid that you’ll feel—unwanted, and wish to be given back to your mother’s relatives instead.”

Dick didn’t bother hiding in the shook. He gasped, “But I was in the orphanage! I thought—I thought I had no one else.”

Alfred shook his head. “You were. But just as Master Bruce had taken you in, one of your mother’s distant cousins offered to adopt you. The Judge, mercifully, had left the decision on you.”

Dick’s eyes widened and he began to frown. There’s more than that, Alfred hadn’t been fully truthful when he was recounting the tales of their shared past. His mother’s relative didn’t come right after Bruce had offered to adopt him. No, there had been a catalyst, a reason for the system to judge that a highly capable individual such as the Sole Heir to the Wayne Enterprise had been deemed inadequate by the system who heavily favored wealth.

Are you sure you wish to remain with Bruce Wayne?

He could faintly hear the Judge’s voice speaking to him, could roughly remember the layout of the court room as it drapes over his current hospital room. Suddenly, he could see the shadows of their witnesses, hear the faint whispers of gossips of the others. He had been in that court room, he had stood in front of the judge, he had been asked that question because—

He ran away.

Two months after living in Wayne Manor, he had ran away to chase after his parents’ killer.

“Choice—It was—An---Accident.”

Chapter Text

It took a bit of convincing, but finally, the Wayne brothers were able to convince their father to go out with Alfred and buy dinner. Alfred, of course, still scoffed at the idea and silently proclaimed that there’s no restaurant that exists in the world that could match his cooking.

“It’s true—” Bruce shrugged.

Dick could only sigh. At least their father wouldn’t be confined within the room. He might not be able to voice it out to them, but Dick could see the little jittering of their father, the way his eyes move around the room, unable to stay still—as if he couldn’t stand the sight of his eldest son in a hospital bed.

It made the inside of Dick churn with worry, maybe even more with regret. He should’ve done better. And not get himself injured. What use of his years of training when he couldn’t even defeat the Owl-masked attacker. When he couldn’t protect his father. Even until now they have no absolutely idea who the attacker was or what he was doing there—how come he knew of their father’s schedule enough to attack him, in broad daylight even.

Damian’s right hand appeared in his vision, waving in front of him. “Brother?” he asked, a curious yet worried eyes stared into Dick’s.

Dick gave a soft assuring smile, “yes?”

Damian lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t comment further. He was holding the new phone model that their father brought for Dick. “Maybe we could ask Tim if he could upgrade this phone further and upload his little pet project in it.”

“Pet project?” Dick asked, already roughing his mind with what it could be.

Damian shrugged as if Dick should already be informed of his little brothers’ activities. “Yeah, I don’t know what silly name he’s calling it but it’s like a CCTV installed in the whole city.”

“Ah,” Dick said, remembering the many nights—early morning—he saw Tim hunched over his laptop or in front of the huge screen in the basement, typing away in the computer. He let him be, figuring that whatever Tim was using to keep himself busy, would keep him busy enough not to spiral like what Jason did.

They all grieve. In their own ways.

“What was he calling it anyway?” Dick asked, curious.

“Brother Eye.”

“Weird,” Dick said.

Damian shrugged. “I said that to him but he’s insisting. He thought it was cool or something.”

Dick could now see his little brother playing a game over the phone. He took out his other phone and decided to play with him.

A bit later…

“You’re being sus—” Dick said, laughing as Damian squealed and started taking offense.

“Stop with that stupid word!” his little brother said.

Dick laughed and pointed at the little astronaut in his phone. “But here’s you! And you’re being sus!”

Damian grunted. He was about to open his mouth and no doubt let out a string of insults when the door opened.

In came Jason and Tim, both wearing unsuspecting civilian clothing. Tim was, as usual, have his laptop bag slouched over his shoulder and Jason was carrying a small bag, as well. Dick squinted at the bag, already doubting that just as Damian did, Jason somehow managed to sneak in his guns pass the security.

He saw as Jason’s eyes wandered over the room, his body growing tense every passing second.

And it was then that Dick understood. “Dad went with Alfred to get dinner,” he answered a question Jason didn’t even need to voice.

Jason visibly relaxed, “Ok.”

Dick’s eyes then wandered towards Tim, taking over his appearance more carefully.

He frowned with what he saw.

Tim looked worse than before they went to Ethiopia. He looked like insomnia personified. His eyes were barely opened, his shoulders were hunched as if his bag weight with the whole CPU, and he has visible dark bags underneath his eyes. He looked like a shadow of his former self. Dick could feel energy being sucked out of him by just looking at his younger brother.

Tim looked so exhausted it’s troubling Dick.

But when Tim caught Dick’s eyes, he merely forced a smile. As if him looking like a walking death was something normal. He held up his silver tumbler, and Dick has little doubt that it’ll filled with a godly amount of caffeine shots, and presented it as if it was the answer to everything. “I’m alright.”

It’s a miracle you could still stand—Dick thought. He shook his head, the beginning of a scolding in his lips, “Tim—”

Tim grunted. “There’s nothing, Dick,” he said, with much venom it surprised everyone in the room. Tim’s eyes widened and his hand immediately went to his lips, as if realizing too late that he had spoken words that he shouldn’t have.

“What?” Dick asked, worry heightening.

Tim’s body shook and he looked like he was on the verge of collapsing on himself. “I—” his voice breaks, “I searched. Everywhere. I searched anything—but there’s nothing about them. No identity to reveal, no links on who they might be connected with,” his eyes glistened with barely contained tears, “And I tried, believe me brother, I tried.”

Dick frowned, “Oh, Tim—"

Damian stood from where he sat and walked towards him—but Tim merely held up his hand, “Don’t.”

Jason sighed. He and Dick locked eyes and the eldest understood. Jason had already tried getting through Tim, since they’re the ones who had been together, but so far, it looked like the older had failed.

Before Damian could speak again, Jason stepped forward. “All we had was this,” he took out the feather from his pocket where it was placed inside an evidence bag and presented it around the room.

Dick didn’t even bother asking how Jason managed to get the evidence bad with the GCPD tag on it.

“I already ran fingerprints on it. But the results obviously has nothing because the Owl-man was wearing a damn gloves,” Tim said.

Dick’s mouth moved on its own, “Language.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Hmph.”

Silence enveloped the room. All of his brothers exchanged looks before their gazes turn back to Dick. Their lips remained shut. Their bodies tensed. As if everyone was waiting for the deliberations of Dick, what he’ll decide to do next.

Gotham Knights has no leader.

Not officially, anyway.

Dick hummed, factoring all the miniscule data they have collected. He closed his eyes and thought for a minute. There wasn’t anything they could do beyond wait. He doesn’t like it, especially since their defenseless father would be involved, and he’s pretty sure none of his brothers would like it as well. But they have nothing to go on, nothing solid to hold onto.

His gaze turned back to the metallic feather that the attacker used as a pseudo-weapon. Something tingled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

He sighed. “We don’t have a choice,” he began, already expecting the onslaught of opposition from his brothers, “We need to wait for them to make a move.”

“What?!” Surprisingly, it was Tim who sounded panicked.

Damian was closed second, “You’re not suggesting—”

“We can’t use Dad as bait,” Jason said, with much conviction its as if he’ll willingly punch some sense back to their eldest brother.

Dick shook his head. “I’m not saying we do. We’ll still take an active approach,” he locked gaze with the three of them, “Particularly you three. You have to look for clues around the city.” He briefly looked down on his bandaged arm and grimaced again.

He turned back to his brothers. He has to explain this better, else they might deliberately misinterpret it to cause unnecessary chaos. “I say look because we can’t risk them knowing that we’re actively searching. This attacker knew where Dad is. Specifically targeted him and we have to know why.”

It’s not just daylight robbery. Everything is pointing to a planned assassination.

What they do not know, is if it is connected to the Joker. The one who kidnapped their father in Ethiopia.

The three nodded, each accepting already the role given to them.

Dick gave them a stern look. “Take care of each other. Keep both eyes open. And watch each other’s back,” he said finally. Especially since I won’t be able to watch yours— “We’re dealing with a highly dangerous enemy. We can’t afford to be careless.”

His three brothers stood straighter. They gave him a short nod, as if acknowledging his command.

Dick turned then towards Tim, “And Tim, take better care of yourself. This isn’t your fault.” Oh how Dick hoped that such simple words of assurance would be absorbed by Tim.

Tim bowed. Jason gave him a soft pat in the back.

Another silence enveloped the Knights. A heavy pressure weighting on them.

Jason turned towards his brother, “And what about you?” he asked. He turned towards the bandage on Dick’s arms, “Is your injury getting worse--?”

Tim looked up, alarmed.

Dick frowned as he saw the silent tears in his little brother’s eyes. He hated how his brother was blaming himself for the incident. His hate towards the sling doubled.

“Come here,” he motioned for Tim.

Tim walked towards him, obediently.

Dick gave his brother a side hug and gently patted his head. He gave him a quick kiss on his forehead.

Tim’s body shivered. Dick gave a soft oof as Tim tackled him with a tight hug. His tears fell, soaking Dick’s shoulders. But Dick let him be, gently patting his back as Tim finally let go of the pressure that is holding him hostage.

Jason gave him a soft smile, thankful that their eldest brother manages to break through Tim’s and help him unwind. Damian also looked pleased.

They stayed like that for a while, Dick letting Tim let out his troubles on his shoulders, while Jason and Damian silently supporting them in the background.

“We’ll be alright,” Dick said, patting Tim’s head as the younger uncurl himself from hugging Dick. His eyes were red-rimmed with tears but at least he looks less stressed.

Tim nodded. He gave a whispered thank you.

Dick nodded.

“So you’ll be going back with us tonight?” Jason asked, hopeful.

Dick sadly shook his head. “No. Dad wanted me to stay the night even though my injury isn’t even that—”

Tim, who looked fuller now, straightened up. His eyes sparkling as an idea formed in his head. “What’s actually advantageous for us,” he interjected.

“Oh?” Dick asked.

Tim nodded. “Yeah. At least you’ll be able to protect dad,” he pulled out Dick’s emergency communicator that the elder forgot and probably left in the aftermath of the wreckage from their father’s office. Good thing Jason had been there first and managed to hid the device before the police and others arrived.

“Here,” Tim said, “the signals right now in this room was bad but my device isn’t dependent on Gotham’s Telecom towers.” He sounded so proud as he showed that the communicator fully functioning, as compared to his phone who wasn’t able to get a decent signal in the room.

Dick smiled and patted his little brother’s head. “Good job Little Robin!”

Damian snickered at the nickname. But Dick doesn’t mind, he knew that his brothers, no matter how much they deny it, adore whenever he calls them with that nickname. Even Jason!

“My little Richard. My little Robin—”

He shivered. A chill enveloping him.

“Whooh—! Where’d you get this?” Jason walked over to the other side and noticed the books (obviously, because he’s a big bookworm) on the table. He had been searching for these in the market whenever he was free as he wanted some of the titles in here.

Dick sighed. He opened his mouth to dramatically explain his situation when his little brother cut him off. “Dad brought those for him.”

Jason snickered, and Dick could feel a migraine forming his head as he realizes that his younger brother is about to embark in his voyage of endless teasing. “All of these?”

Dick opened his mouth but Damian was faster, “Yes.”

Jason laughed. “Wow you’re so spoiled.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “I am not—”

But once his brothers start, there is no stopping them. “Dad brought him the latest phone model too. The Latest game. A whole cake. A whole box of cookies. And—”

Dick leaned and covered Damian’s blabbering mouth. “Shhsshh now!”

Tim’s eyes widened. He grabbed the phone from Damian and admired it, the Tech nerd that he is. “Wow, this wasn’t even released in the market yet—Dad basically bought you the prototype. That or he brought you the very first production.”

Dick groaned. He’s not spoiled okay? He’s not.

Jason hummed in agreement, though surprisingly didn’t comment further. He was already reading one of the books, engrossed in the words in it. He unconsciously grabbed a cookie and began munching, eyes never leaving the pages of the book.

Damian sighed. He turned towards Tim and made a bet. “Bet Jason’s not going to be able to focus on patrol.”

Tim nodded, but he too was engrossed in opening up the latest phone model, his laptop already set up by the foot of Dick’s bed, his tools scattered as he re-programmed the phone.

Dick sighed. But he felt even more relaxed being surrounded by his brothers.

“My little Richard…

My little Robin…

Where are you—”

Chapter Text

The emergency ping alert came of a surprise to everyone. But perhaps not too much on Tim who was casually test running the newly improved surveillance program that he had been building these past few weeks.

The programming took a toll on him, not just physically (he could feel his body slowing down because of the lack of sleep), but also mentally (though not so much as becoming dumb, but when he was asked to recite earlier in class, he found himself slurring a bit with the end of his words, as if he was high and drunk). However, none of them deterred him on completing the program, even at the cost of his self.

His older brother, Jason surprisingly, has tried to ‘slow him down’ by insisting that he gets breaks in between. “At least do an alternating sleep schedule,” he told Tim. “Complete eight hours today, then tomorrow—whatever hours you can grant yourself with.” Tim merely rolled his eyes at Jason. How dare Jason asked of him to control the way he conducts his life—his grievances (because wasn’t these just all a ploy because he felt like failure when his tracker didn’t save their father?)—when Tim didn’t bother stopping Jason on his wild craze of hunting down all that is connected with the Mercenary?

“Let him grieve”, he told Dick when they tried to intervene with Jason’s quest.

“Let me grieve,”, he wanted to tell Jason.

But he merely remained silent, an empty promise of “okay, I’ll do better” he said. Looking at Jason’s disapproving frown (which looks oddly similar to Dick’s), Tim doubts that his older brother even believed an ounce of his words.

No matter, at least Tim managed to dissuade Jason from further forcing to stop with what’s he’s doing.

Emergency. Wayne Tower.

Tim didn’t even bother getting his teacher’s permission, he quickly made his way outside of the school and rushed to where Jason was, already boarding his motorcycle. Jason saw him and immediately threw a helmet at him. Tim quickly wore it.

“Dami?” Jason asked, though he’s already started his engine.

“He’ll be there,” Tim said, after hopping at the back.

Jason nodded and they already rushed through the narrow streets of Gotham. They parked near the edge of the Tower and Tim rushed onto the gates without bothering changing. Jason already has half of his gear setup. He put out his tool and aimed it at the nearest window. Even though the trip would be forty floors up, Jason trusted his tool to lift him up over the side of the building.

Tim, meanwhile, used the elevator that was available. None of the staff bothered stopping a high school student going inside the office building. All the while he was being lifted up to the floor of father’s office, he was using his tablet to load the program and find whoever could’ve been responsible for the emergency. He knew from the program and alert that Dick was the first on the scene and that placid their worries. At least Nightwing would be there to defend their father.

At the corner of the street, just on the other side alley of the building, Tim saw a man gripping his side. He was walking oddly and then he turned his head—and that’s when Tim saw the man was wearing an odd owl mask. He threw something—and the feed was cut off.

The elevator pinged and Tim saw the state of his father’s office. There were broken glasses everywhere. He saw at the corner of his eyes Dick and Bruce, their father was mostly unscratched except for his bleeding right hand, while Dick was holding on to his stabbed shoulder. Tim knew that it wasn’t fatal, and Dick as Nightwing had gone through worst, so he focused on Red Hood who was already at the scene.

Red Hood picked up Dick’s emergency device from the wreckage. And a sharpened golden-coated metal feather.

Tim’s eyes widened.

Jason stayed behind in the building to scout for anymore clues and whatever the GCPD may pick up (Detective Jim Gordon was on scene and Detective Bullock as well, so they have high trust for the two to discover something useful). Damian went with Alfred to go to the hospital where Dick was taken, and of course to check up on their father as well.

Tim, on the other hand, went straight back to the Manor. He went to the basement and booted up the huge computer. Immediately, his program ran on the background. Then, the Mercenary’s picture, from the day he abducted Bruce Wayne in Ethiopia, flashed on the screen. And then Tim pulled up on the sides all the information he had managed to get from all of his research. It wasn’t much—the Mercenary’s background still remains unknown. Despite of his demise from his brother’s hands, little still came to known of the Mercernary. But his affiliation, all the places he was seen (or advised to be) in, and all the persons who had acquired his services – are all compressed in a single report.

Tim grimaced, even though the authorities could only dream of getting half of these information—they’re still not enough. Not when there’s a new player that entered the scene. The golden feather, the masked owl that he saw by the alleyway—who is targeting their father, again?

He glared at the face of the Mercenary, smiling maliciously on the CCTV screen. Tim hated the Clown, the makeup, the posture—everything that is about the Mercenary. He may be dead, but his madness still taunted him. He felt as if the Mercenary is still watching over them, playing king behind this elaborate chest and sending this—owl-masked assassin to finish what he started.

He hated this—hated being this useless, this clueless about the threat that is already happening right in front of him, right within the scope of his project. With this—with this massive surveillance program that he’s developing, he should’ve been able to see the attack happening before a single window could be broken. He should’ve been seen the dagger before it flew towards his father—or his brothers.

What use of this then? What use of this massive surveillance if he was still left in the dark?

Anger boiled within him as he glared at the maddening smile of the Mercenary. He could feel his dark green eyes glaring back at him. He could feel his gaze on him.

He shivered.

He shook his head. The Mercenary is dead. He saw the blown head of the criminal. He was no longer a threat that he should consider. What he should look towards for was the affiliations that this madman left behind. Because even though the Mercenary was dead, there were still clowned criminals that are doing petty crimes. It was as if they still believed in the Mercenary’s cause.

Or there was still someone ordering them behind.

But who? Tim had tried to track down all the individuals that are affiliated with the Mercenary. All that had worked with him, for him, and those known individuals that contracted him. But all of them are either in prison for the petty crimes, or are too protected behind wealth.

So who? Who is still available to do the Mercenary’s left-behind bidding? Should Tim really focus his attention still on this madman?

But there wasn’t anything else. He had nothing to hold onto but this.

This—

Something ping on the computer. Tim’s tired eyes immediately became alert. He clicked onto the report and read it as it pops on the huge screen.

A known associate of the Mercenary. He had worked under the clown for five years, though he had evaded capture until today. He was hailed from a upper-middle class family and had went to Gotham University but dropped for unknown reasons. It was then that he became part of the Mercenary’s clowns.

The man had anger blazing on his eyes and he looked like he was high on drugs. Tim zoomed in and saw the small gang tattoo of the man, signifying that he really had been with the Mercenary. He clicked on the GCPD report:

Drug Possession and Intoxication. Trespassing. Serious Physical Assault.

And it looked like he trespassed in his ex-girlfriend’s house and assaulted the occupant. It looked like an ordinary private complaint however Tim couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was something more. After all, Tim wouldn’t even came to known of him had he not been arrested for assault and Tim’s surveillance managed to catch in the tattoo on his arm.

The mugshot of the man flashed on the screen. Angry green eyes glaring on him.

With a frown on his lips, Tim read the name –

Jack Napier.

Chapter Text

After Bruce said a brief goodbye to his eldest, he and Alfred began their way towards the parking area. Alfred got the keys from Bruce and started the car. Bruce, meanwhile, stayed at the door, looking around the silent parking space. When he had been here earlier, he felt eyes watching him, but now when he was with someone else, the feeling of being stalked disappeared.

He wondered then if the feeling meant something. Or maybe he was just being paranoid at that time, emotions still catching up after being attacked and seeing his eldest get injured in front of him.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred asked from the driver’s seat.

Bruce shook his head and got in the car. “It’s nothing.”

Alfred looked at him, his eyes assessing him.

Bruce sighed. He doesn’t want to talk about him again. Alfred was no longer the pseudo-therapist Bruce treated him before. He had grown up. “Can we go to the GCPD first?” he asked instead.

Alfred’s eyes widened. “What for?”

“I wanted to ask Detective Gordon about the attacks.”

It was Alfred’s turn to sigh. “The police are doing their best. I don’t think it’s best—” He was gripping the wheel a bit tighter.

Bruce hummed. “I just want to ask,” the desire to know more burned in him.

Alfred nodded. “As you wish, Master Bruce.”

The GCPD was as chaotic as ever. Police were running around the place, the telephone kept on ringing, and criminals banging on the small prison they are caged in.

The police were too busy with their own agendas that none of them kept a second glance at the Wayne CEO, the billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne, walking in the precinct.

Detective Bullock was the first who saw him. He yelled over at his partner who was hunched over the paperwork scattered around his tiny table. “Jim! Someone’s here to see you!”

Jim perked out from where he was hunched over. His eyes were tired yet he still gave a warm smile to Bruce. It reminded Bruce of the same smile Jim gave to him, at the night beside the theatre. Back on the night when the Wayne family met its tragedy.

“Hey kiddo!” Jim said, going down from the stairs to shake Bruce’s hand.

Bruce inwardly grimaced, trust the older detective to still treat him as a kid. “Good evening Detective Gordon,” he greeted politely.

Jim wrapped his arm around Bruce’s shoulder in a half-hug. He squeezed his arm, “Glad to see you back from the dead, Bruce. Truly got us worried.” He gave him a fuller smile.

Alfred coughed beside Bruce.

“Yeah, I am too,” Bruce said, in a smaller voice. A heavy silence enveloped the three. The noise of the precinct became nothing but a background noise.

“So what brings you here?” Jim asked, brushing off the silence.

“Uh—” Bruce coughed, “I wanted to ask about the investigation regarding the attack in the Wayne Tower.”

Jim’s face immediately fell, and he suddenly stood rigid, “I—” he sighed, he looked around and met Detective Bullock’s deep frown, he turned back to Bruce, looking as if he’d rather do anything than deliver the bad news between his lips, “We’re doing our best with the investigation Bruce, but we have—there’s nothing we have right now.”

Bruce nodded. He thought as much. He had nothing against the GCPD, even though the police had never found any leads regarding the death of his parents, but he really should know better than to expect a immediate results. After all the city is as chaotic as it is, he doubts the GCPD lacks of cases to solve.

Jim must’ve seen the disappointment in Bruce’s face because he offered another half-hug at him, “We’ll do the best we can. We’ll get him.” He said, uttering the same words he said to a young Wayne.

Bruce nodded. “Thank you, Detective Gordon.”

Jim nodded and offered him a quick smile. “How was Richard? What he did was very brave.”

“And stupid,” Bruce grimaced.

“Yes. And stupid,” Jim smiled, but there’s something else in his eyes that Bruce couldn’t read.

Bruce chose to ignore it. “He’s healing. Insisting on going home, again.”

That earned a laugh on Jim. “Quick the troublemaker he still is, isn’t he? I remembered the time you couldn’t get him down from the chandelier.”

Bruce’s heart fluttered as the memories of that day flashed in his mind. “That still scares me to this day.”

A silence came over them once again, but this time, it’s easier. “You’re a good father to him.”

Bruce’s face flushed. “I—”

“I’m sure he’s thankful you took him in.”

Bruce nodded. He remembered having doubts of whether he was truly what the young Dick would needed in his life. The young Dick was too lost over the sudden death of his parents, that he refused to communicate and say anything to Bruce on his first months in the Manor. Not even Alfred’s delicious cookies could melt the iron on the young kid’s mouth.

But after his sudden disappearance, after going back home, after being in front of the judge and being asked who he wanted to raise him—“Your biological aunt or Mister Wayne?”

For the first time, Bruce heard him speak. “Home. I want to go back to my home.” And he looked at Bruce, with his blue eyes gleaming with longing and joy. And Bruce, embarrassingly, cried in that court room.

“Thank you,” Bruce managed to say, a little bit overwhelmed with the onslaught of his previous memories.

Jim nodded and let him outside. On his way out, he bumped into a tall lanky man, with hunched shoulders, wearing a lab coat.

“Sorry,” the man whispered.

“No problem,” Bruce said.

The man nodded before skimming towards inside the precinct. Bruce’s eyes following him.

“Don’t mind Nygma, Bruce,” Jim said, leading him out. “He’s always—” he sighed, “Like that.”

Bruce nodded. He had too much on his plate right now to think intently about people who randomly bumped into him. “Thank you again, Detective.”

Jim nodded. “No worries! Take care of yourself, Bruce.”

Bruce nodded. “You too, Detective.”

Jim gave a smile and a brief wave before going back inside.

“Shall we?” Alfred spoke, finally, politely pointing on the car parked outside.

Bruce nodded and followed him.

He was getting itchy. The drugs he has taken earlier are not working anymore. Perhaps it did? Perhaps his body has just been accustomed with the drugs he had induced and now it wants more. More. More. More.

The itchiness seemed to have doubled. He could feel his heart beating against his ribs, as if trying to break the bone and rip his flesh. It’s getting harder and harder to breath. And he found himself vomiting what little is left of his yesterday’s meal.

His red-rimmed eyes glanced at all the shadows that move. He was running away after the massacre that had happened in the Gotham harbor.

He vomited once more, heaving hardly as all he could puke out was empty air and spit. A laugh escaped him. Though it constricted his stomach and made it harder for him to breath.

But he can’t help it! The joke that presented itself.

He thought back at all the bodies that surrounded him that night. At the bloodied and broken faces of his comrades. And at the face of the Mercenary as the Gotham Knight pointed his gun at their leader’s face.

How funny it is. To think that this city would bend over backwards to hail these cold-blooded murders as ‘heroes’ who will save the city from the filths.

Yet there was little difference between their hands and his. Bloody. Dirty.

They are devils masquerading as protectors of justice.

Justice? What Justice?

This City knows no justice.

Only clowns and their masks.

He could feel those shadows following him, watching him, waiting for the right time to perk down from where they are hiding. They wanted him. After the Mercenary, they’ll be sure to go after him. After all, he had been the only survivor at that night. All of the Mercenary’s faction in that Harbor had been massacred—sparing no one—but him.

Because he was smarter than them. Smarter than the Hounds that went after them.

Another giggle escaped his lips. He could feel blood spilling from his lips.

If only they knew—

If only those fools knew who they killed—

He looked up at the moon that looms over the city. The only witness to the crimes that these ‘pretenders’ had done.

Well, the moon isn’t the only witness. There is he.

The shadows move.

And they’re coming after him. Probably to silence him, because they wouldn’t want everyone in the city to know what kind of monster they truly are. The Hounds that are hiding behind those masks.

Masks…One day he’ll rid of this city of the mask it wore.

And show everyone what it truly is.

Bruce and Alfred went back to the hospital with the dinner that they brought outside. Bruce thought that he was picky enough with the food that he’ll be giving to his eldest, but apparently, Alfred was pickier. He was very meticulous with the ingredients of the food and asked many questions to the chef.

Of course the chefs weren’t able to do anything but engage in Alfred’s inquiries. Though, most of them were delighted that someone was able to speak their language.

In the end, Alfred was the one who picked what food they’ll be taking back to the hospital. He even brought a small mango shake for Bruce and him to enjoy while they’re driving back. Bruce thanked him.

When they arrived back at the hospital, Bruce was greeted with the sight of his sons. Jason was at the window, reading one of the books he brought for Dick, Tim and Damian were engaged in a game together while Dick rested quietly on the bed.

Bruce smiled at his sons.

Jason was the first to notice him, which surprised Bruce since usually nothing can get Jason out from wherever location the books get him to. He was always too engrossed reading.

“Dad!” he greeted, which made Tim and Damian perked up from what they’re doing. It also softly roused Dick from his brief rest.

Bruce went over to his eldest and patted his head while giving him a quick peck on the forehead. Dick’s face flushed but he kept quiet.

Bruce looked around the room and saw his sons looking intently at them before looking away after their father caught their gazes. He looked at Alfred, who merely smiled before starting to prepare to distribute the food they brought.

Bruce gave a soft smile before going through each of his sons to give the same head pat and quick kiss on their foreheads. They looked satisfied after that.

They each then eat their dinners, while Bruce asks his sons about their schooling. Each of his kids were doing alright with their schooling and thankfully hadn’t missed many classes. Except for Dick, who Bruce is determined that he’ll stay in the hospital (despite his protests).

Afterwards, when they’re finished eating, Alfred started packing up the leftovers, of course leaving still some for Dick to munch on. The brothers also prepared to leave. Bruce looks over at his eldest who is conversing with Jason, and then to the others. His tired body wanted to go back home, back to the Manor, where he could tuck his boys back to their rooms, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to leave his eldest behind in the hospital. Especially, since he’s the one who insisted that the other stayed in here.

He wished he could tear his body in half and do both.

Eventually, Alfred had made the decision for him. He gave a quick hug to Bruce and assured him that he’ll make sure that the others went to bed and up in the morning to attend school. The boys took a quick glance with each other, but Bruce was too tired to notice.

He thanked Alfred and gave each of his sons a brief hug and a quick kiss on their foreheads. “Sleep well. And take care.”

“You too, father,” Damian said, being the last to let go.

They waved goodbye to Dick and soon after only the father and the eldest son was left on the room.

“You should rest, dad,” Dick said, eyeing the way that Bruce goes.

Bruce knew that as the day goes to its end, his body also goes down. He felt as if the sun had sucked out his energy alongside it’s sunset. He went over to the chair beside Dick’s bed and gave his son a brief son. “I am alright,” he assured him.

Dick frowned. “You should’ve went home with the others,” he said, still stubbornly insisting that he could be left alone.

Bruce was too tired to argue. He merely gave a sigh and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Dick sighed, sleep catching up on him as well. He slowly laid back down, adjusting his injured arm a little, before closing his eyes. “Okay. Good night, dad.”

Bruce brushed a bit of his son’s hair, “Good night, son.”

Dick smiled before closing his eyes and falling asleep.

Bruce gently brushed a bit more of his son’s hair before settling down on the chair beside the bed. He doesn’t know what’s keeping his mind insistent on the fact that—the injury, the attack, everything that had happened ever since he ‘came back from the dead’ were all part of that past that he couldn’t remember.

That brief time after he was taken from the Gala in Ethiopia and after he had found himself locked in a dungeon with a delusional man.

The answers of what could have triggered the attack, he thought, might be connected to that 3-5 days that he had disappeared. No one else knew what happened, except from his mind which refuses to remember.

As much as the memory scares him, he needed to remember. He needed to know what happened. Why he was attacked immediately after he was rescued. Who was the one who kidnapped him from the Gala? What happened after?

He pulled out the card that his doctor had given him. He took one glance at his son and the sling where his injured shoulder is healing from and went outside.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, is this Doctor Quinzel?”

“Yes, speaking. Who is this?”

“I am Bruce Wayne. And I would like to make an appointment.”

Chapter Text

Tim immediately notified Jason and Damian about the criminal who was with Mercenary before. His brothers were already in the City, doing the first rounds of their patrols and added investigation.

“Red Hood—”

“Robin—”

The two answered the communicator at the moment that Tim rang it. His brothers’ face flashed before the screen. Robin was perched atop the building at the East while Jason was at an alleyway by the West.

“What’s the situation Red Robin?” Red Hood asked, his helmet muffling most of his words.

Tim immediately went into business. “There’s a criminal that the GCPD took in. His name is Jack Napier. And he’d been a part of the Mercenary’s gang before it got forcefully dissolved.”

None of the three have to specify what the ‘forceful’ part meant. All three had bore witness on Jason’s slipping into darkness. And neither Tim nor Damian had stopped Jason, so they are to blame as much as their older brother.

There was a pause. “And he was arrested for?” Red Hood clarified.

“Drugs. And assault.”

“Assault with whom?”

“It was a domestic assault. His previous girlfriend was the one who reported him, according to the complaint filed,” Tim answered, already skimming the copy of the complaint he hacked in the GCPD database.

“Send in Napier’s address, we’ll look into it,” Red Hood said, taking on the place of Dick’s leadership in his place.

Tim immediately sent in the details to the two. “It was closer to Robin’s location. Wait for me, I’ll be there in five.”

Robin nodded from where he stood. “I’ll scout for gang members while waiting.”

Look out for each other.

“Alright. Wait for us Robin,” Red Hood said before dropping the call.

“Copy.” Robin said before following suit.

Tim immediately locked up the computer and changed to his gears. He hopped on to the spare motorcycle and speed through the night.

The place was exactly how one would picture out an odd gang member would live in. It was located in the shabbiest part of the East city and part of the most ‘inhabitable’ locations. It was no doubt that Napier would choose that place to live.

After all, looking at the people hang up on drugs, walking like zombies on the side alleyway, no one would think twice questioning any criminal activities done in this place.

The Gotham Knights carefully moved in the shadows. They were known as vigilantes of the city and they didn’t want to cause too much commotion by scaring off the petty crimes that are happening around them. As much as they wanted to clean this part of the city, it’ll take more that the three of them—and definitely the full force of the police and local government to truly improve it.

Robin had already scouted the building and found no irregularities with the near rooms in the apartment complex. He easily forced his way in the door and led his brothers inside.

“This was—”

Red Robin sighed. The whole place is empty like a bachelor’s apartment complex. There’s nothing on the cabinets nor on the bed. The place was surprisingly and suspiciously clean, there’s no unwashed glassware on the small kitchenette and dirty clothes scattered on the bed or on the small sofa by the door.

His brothers still did their usual protocol and went around, carefully eyeing each of the objects and looking out for hidden compartments or smaller rooms. But the longer they look around, the grimmer their hopes become. There’s really nothing!

Nothing that they could use to further their investigation. Tim gritted his teeth. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. He could feel the shimmer of hope he got after locating Jack Napier slipping from his hands. Why was it like he’s grasping at straws whenever he’s investigating the Mercenary?

Except—“Guys! I think there’s something here—” Robin shouted.

Red Hood and Red Robin immediately went to where he was. Robin pulled out an old wooden frame that was underneath the bed, brushing off the dirt that accumulated around it, before presenting it at the other two.

It was a picture taken in front of the Gotham University, the university’s most prominent building serving as the background of it. There was Jack Napier, standing at the middle of a group of six. He looked like he was in his 20s. He had his right arm around another young student, a blonde girl with thick glasses, smiling brightly at the camera, while Jack has a small yet proud smile on his lips. Beside the blonde girl, stood a tall, skinny and pale black-haired woman who had a snarl on her face. She had her arms crossed, eyes glaring at Jack and what seems to be his girlfriend. On the other side of Jack, stood three other guys: the tallest of them six who was wearing a long brown coat who was wearing a huge glasses and hugging three books, another guy who was slightly smaller than him who was glaring at the camera and a chubby guy, who was the smallest out of all the six people, with a very thick and elongated nose like—

“Holy shit—was that the Penguin?!” Red Hood exclaimed, his shock evident despite the mask.

Tim frowned. He took out his phone and scanned the picture. It took a while, but cross-referencing the images from the growing database in his computer and the hacked information readily available from the Gotham system, he confirmed the identity of the six:

Jack Napier. Harleen Quinzel. Pamela Ivy. Edward Nygma. Jonathan Crane. Oswald Cobblepot.

Their school database flashing alongside on his phone. “Four of them graduated, all having PhDs. Oswald dropped out in his second year while Jack dropped out in third year.”

“Are we sure Jack didn’t join Penguin’s gang? After all, looking at this, they could’ve been friends,” Jason said.

Tim nodded. “I’ll look into that.”

“And does this mean, the Penguin was also acquitted with the Mercenary?” Damian asked, in a soft, unassured voice.

Jason grimaced. “It’s impossible. He’s in the Black Gate when shit hit happened. We would’ve been notified if he escaped.”

Tim frowned. Though Jason said it was an impossibility, Tim needed to still look into that. He just couldn’t dismiss anything, not when they have nothing to hold onto.

Tim…well, he hadn’t slept in a while. He had been researching the whole night and afternoon after his classes—since none of them want to trigger their teachers into calling Bruce and worrying their father atop of his worries over Dick—he hadn’t been able to truly rest.

He had been researching everything that could be unraveled about Jack Napier. True to Jason’s theory, Jack has no connection with the Penguin—never been hired by him, never worked with him. As far as Tim could tell, Jack—during his criminal days—had never really crossed paths with the Penguin. Which is all kinds of weird because hadn’t Oswald practically spent two years with Jack in the university? And going by the picture that they discovered in Jack’s apartment, they’re a part of a group.

Furthermore, despite Jack being part of the Mercenary’s gang, his criminal record were filled with mere petty crimes (as compared to the extent of what the Mercenary’s criminal tendencies could reach). He had records for theft, mugging, several complaints of harassment from Pamela, gang violence…the list goes on. But how come he was still freely roaming the streets of Gotham? With this track record, as a multiple recidivist, Jack shouldn’t even be allowed to bail and should be permanently imprisoned.

Yet again, Gotham’s justice system shows its true colors.

“That fact that he was vile enough to associate himself with someone like the Mercenary should earn him life imprisonment,” Tim muttered, getting angrier and angrier as he browsed through the complaints filed against Jack.

He gritted his teeth. This time, he’ll make sure he stayed in the prison he’s currently in.

The door to the basement opens and Tim already knew who he’ll found lingering by his back. “You should be in bed—or at least preparing for bed,” Jason said, he sounded just as tired as Tim felt.

Tim sighed. “I’m still trying to figure out about Jack—”

Jason sighed, “Look, buddy, Napier’s not going anywhere for a while. He’s in GCPD—”

Tim was too tired to be patient with his brother, “Look at this!” he pointed at the complaints against Jack flashed on the screen, “He was a recidivist. Yet he was still free to roam the streets. Free to join the Mercenary. Is this what ‘not going anywhere’ looks like?!”

Jason frowned, he crossed his arms, and glared at his younger brother, “Yes, I admit that the GCPD had it’s fault—”

“It’s not just the police, brother. The whole fucking system is insane!” Tim yelled.

It was then that Jason placed both of his hands on either side of Tim’s, grounding him back. “I know, believe me, I know.”

And Tim—after knowing what hell Jason had been through because of the same broken system—easily deflated. He closed his eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Jason huffed. He brushed his little brother’s head and gave him a quick pat. “No problem. You’re tired. You hate the world, I get that.”

Tim nodded. He looked back to his computer, to the thousand of information flashing on it. Yet even with this immense collection, it was still somehow not enough.

Jason shook his head. “Dad will come back soon, Timmy. You have to appear as if you haven’t been awake for three days straight.”

This time, it was Tim who shook his head. “I could always say I’m busy with my studies,” he grumbled, already typing in a new line on his pet project.

Jason rolled his eyes. “And how will you answer to Dick?”

Tim paused.

“Fine.”

The following morning…

Bruce helped a very reluctant Dick in the car.

Richard Grayson has officially been discharged by the doctors for being of good health. Though, Dick and the doctors have to repeatedly assure Bruce that there’s nothing wrong with his eldest anymore and that the shoulder “is perfectly healing” and no complications will arise even if Dick were to spend the rest of his days back home.

At the end, Bruce could only merely sigh and accept the results from the doctor. He helped his eldest back into the car. Dick insisted on removing the shoulder sling, even dared to move his arm and make dance-like movements (which earned a panic yelped from Bruce), but Bruce was even more stubborn than he. And because Dick loved his father too much, he relented and wore the shoulder sling.

“My brothers would laugh at me,” Dick grumbled as he sat at the back seat. Alfred was the one driving, while Bruce was in the passenger seat.

Bruce merely shook his head. “Your brothers are too good to mock you for your injuries,” he replied. What even was his eldest thinking that his brothers would tease him for his injury? He remembered his sons being worried about Dick, there’s little reason for them to mock him.

Dick groaned and rolled his eyes. But he didn’t say anything afterwards.

Bruce sighed and thought of how ridiculous his eldest son is being.

After a short while, the family arrived back in the Manor. Bruce and Dick got down in the front of the Manor while Alfred has to drive around to park the car. Bruce assisted Dick into the door, all the while the eldest was crumbling, his cheeks flushing as they get closer to the door.

Bruce sighed but thought better of talking about how ridiculous Dick was acting. His eldest son wouldn’t even listen to him anyway.

They went inside. The living room was empty but there’s movements in the dining area. Bruce assisted Dick to the dining room and they were greeted with a peaceful imagery.

Jason was cooking breakfast on the kitchen area. Damian was preparing the table. Tim was taking a short nap on the dining table, his head resting over his arms.

“Good morning boys,” Bruce greeted his busy sons.

Dick groaned, “Good morning.”

Damian and Jason stopped what they’re doing and looked at Dick.

Dick could see the edges of their lips forming a smile but they were very quick to suppress it. He groaned. He knew it.

Damian immediately went to Bruce, passing by Tim and giving him a nudge, then hugging Bruce. “Morning Father, morning brother,” he then assisted Dick on the table. “Here, we wouldn’t want to aggravate that flesh wound.”

Bruce nodded, a proud smile on his face.

Dick looked like he’ll rather have the world swallow him that stay any much longer in the room.

Bruce then went to Jason to ask him if he needed help in anything, but Jason merely shrugged him off. “Take a seat dad, this is almost done.” So following his son, Bruce went to his usual seat at the head of the table and let his sons do the rest.

Alfred came soon after and took over the settling of the table. He also nudges Tim to wake up.

Bruce frowned upon seeing the tired state of his son and wondered if his academics are becoming too hard for his son. Maybe he should offer his help on some of Tim’s subjects? He might not know much about technology, but Bruce could help with other stuff, like mathematics or sciences. He’s quite an all-right student, as far as he remembers. He made a quick reminder to talk to Tim after breakfast.

But when Tim almost fall head first into the eggs prepared to him, Bruce thought that maybe he shouldn’t wait until later. He looked at his other sons—Jason and Damian—and saw that they too have a slightly pale and darker eyebags. They don’t look as tired as Tim but they don’t look like they’ve completed an eight hours of sleep either.

Bruce wouldn’t fault them for staying up late playing games or reading (in case of Jason), he understood that his boys are growing, but of course, just as any loving parents would, Bruce still wants to reprimand them and remind them how beneficial it is for a growing boy to have a peaceful rest.

And he had done all his best to make sure that his boys wouldn’t have to grow up thinking about anything else. He provided them will all that any young boy would need—a quiet home, paid education, some extracurricular activities.

He looked at Tim and asked, “Tim? Sweetheart?”

Tim flinched when he was about to drink his third cup of coffee.

“Have you been sleeping well? You looked…tired,” Bruce said, a meaningful frown on his lips.

He could see how his other sons flinched.

Tim caught Jason’s eyes and grimaced. He then turned fully to Bruce and answered, “It’s school, Dad. The projects—uh, I kinda forgot some of them so I’m catching up.”

Bruce nodded. As long as his son understands the consequences of his mistakes and makes amends, that’s enough for him. He won’t reprimand him anymore since he looks like he already knew what he did wrong anyway.

“What about you? Jay?”

Jason swallowed, he looked nervous as well, though Bruce figured he must’ve been procrastinating like Tim did. “I—uh—same. I—read the wrong chapters so I’m catching up with the correct readings.”

Bruce nodded. He expected as much. He then turned to his youngest, who was busy pretending that he’s a scientist analyzing the very fabric of his food, “And you Dami?”

Damian sighed. “My professors are giving us much harder assignments,” he simply answered.

Bruce nodded. Well, that’s to be expected, he guessed. After all, the private school he enrolled them in ensured him that his sons would graduate with only the best professors teaching them.

He turned to Dick, “Which reminds me, we have to call the school later.”

“What for?” Dick asked.

“Well, we have to ask for considerations for your absences, of course. You’ve been hospitalized. And you can’t attend school yet because your shoulder is still healing,” Bruce said as a matter of fact.

“What?!” Dick dropped the eggs that he was about to eat.

His brothers who were casually pretending to enjoy their coffee (Tim), eat the break (Jason), or drink milk (Damian), were all hiding their smiles.

Dick’s cheeks flushed once more, he really, really can’t stop getting embarrassed with the way that Bruce was coddling him, “We don’t have to—Dad—I can go to school!”

Bruce looked as if Dick had slapped him. He was too shock to hear the suggestion, “Nonsense! The doctors allowed you to go home provided that you continued your healing in the Manor. Plus, we pay more than your tuition in the school. If they won’t accept your predicament, we can just put our donations somewhere else,” he said, suggesting the notion as it wasn’t a blackmail to the administration on its own.

Dick felt like he’ll literally die of embarrassment. He glanced around at his brothers and were a bit thankful that at the very least his brothers have enough decency to hide their snickering from their father. At least they are unified in teasing me? He thought bitterly. What an amazing display of teamwork.

They finished breakfast and as Bruce leaves for his business meeting and his brothers for school, Dick was forced to stay in the Manor. “Please, sweetheart, let your body heal for at least two weeks,” Bruce said, a deep frown on his face, worry evidence on his eyes.

Dick looked like he’s on the verge of crying. “Two?” his voice broke.

Bruce sighed. His resolve was slowly crumbling from how Dick looked so much like a kicked-puppy right now. He groaned and already knew that he’ll regret his decision. “Are you sure your shoulder isn’t bothering you anymore?”

Dick nodded, very eagerly.

Bruce nodded. “Okay, then at least until Alfred deems it that you’ll be okay.” He can trust his pseudo-grandfather and his family’s caretaker to know when it’s appropriate for his son to go back to school. If it’s up to him and his protective streak, he’ll probably insist on two weeks. But he trusted Alfred’s judgment and knew that the older man will also look out for the best of Dick.

Alfred nodded. “I will look into it, Master Bruce.”

Bruce then went to Tim and asked him if he wanted to take an absence to catch up on his sleep. “You can take the school tomorrow,” he understood that education is important but he doesn’t doubt that his son could catch up anyway even though he’ll miss a class.

Tim looked like he’s torn between the choices, but ultimately chose to attend school with his brothers. “Dick’ll be a miserable company,” he muttered, before packing up his laptop.

Bruce laughed at that.

Chapter Text

Apparently, there wasn’t much to be done in his office as well. After a week had passed, the window by which he was attacked had already been repaired, and his office didn’t have any resemblance of the attack as well. He checked his computer and noticed that nothing was amiss as well. His laptop was still being repaired as their tech department is still recovering the files. Though, Bruce is partially to be blamed, he hadn’t been utilizing their cloud system despite having been constantly reminded by his secretary.

Well, another lesson learned for him.

He closed off his computer. It was still early afternoon. The business meetings had all been attended, and the necessary paperwork have already been reviewed and signed. There’s pretty much nothing else for him to trouble right now. Most of the nonimportant stuffs have been delegated to Mr. Fox already, as he had been his proxy anyway during those times when he…

He stood up from his seat.

He remembered now why he cleared most of his schedule. He took up his phone and read the message he received for his appointment. He hoped that he’ll get something out from the meeting he set up with the psychiatrist. He had searched a bit about Dr. Quinzel and was surprised to see that someone as brilliant as she had chose to stay as a psychiatrist in the Arkham Asylum.

That Asylum has always been a torn in Bruce’s side. He had fought quiet hard for that hospital to be used as it should be, for it not to become just a pseudo-prison for the criminally insane; rather for it to become a truly rehabilitation center wherein those who needed help will get the help for them to become better.

It was an uphill battle and at the very least, he was glad that the new appointed Chief Doctor was able to turn that Asylum to something better.

After all, Dr. Quinzel surely wouldn’t choose to stay in that Asylum if it wasn’t being run correctly, right? His private doctor wouldn’t recommend just a nobody to take on Bruce Wayne as a patient.

He was too preoccupied with his thoughts that he the shouts that surrounded him didn’t immediately registered in his brain. He was about to step out of the Wayne Tower when a shadow loomed over his person. There were loud screams that erupted around him. His eyes widened and he looked up—

A large scrap metal dropped from the top of the tower, falling directly to where he stood—

Everything began to act in slow motion. The metal looked as if it’s suspended in the air, slowly making it’s way through the thick layer of gravity. His mouth gaped in shock, but there’s no voice that came out.

And then he was pushed aside. He could feel his body being pushed inside the building by a flash. He closed his eyes in instinct. The scrap metal broke into two when it fell on the ground, it’s fall creating an echo around it. Bruce’s fell on his bump just meters away from the incident. The security immediately surrounded the incident and ushered the people away from the metal. There hadn’t been any incident after that, thankfully.

Bruce opened his eyes and he was guided to stand up. He looked at his right, at the person guiding him, at his savior.

She was around Tim’s age. She was wearing a dress. Her hair was cut short. And her eyes were sharp as she scanned Bruce quickly.

“Thank you,” Bruce said, when he was finally able to stand on his own.

The girl merely shook her head. She stared at him, with her stern eyes. She put her hands above each other, with her forefinger and middle finger up, moving her hand in an up-and-down matter.

Bruce, who had thought that Dick has selective mutism when he was not speaking after his parents’ death, has thought himself enough sign language to understand what the girl was trying to tell him.

Careful.

He was about to ask for her name but the girl immediately turned away and ran towards a different direction. He was then surrounded by his staff and some bodyguards, asking him if he was alright and if they needed to call an ambulance. Bruce tried to see more of the girl, but she had already disappeared from the commotion.

He thanked all his staffs and assured them that he was alright. He also ordered his secretary to refrain from calling his family. His sons are busy with rushing their school materials and Dick is also healing back in the Manor. He doesn’t want to trouble them with a little accident. Apparently, the scrap metal was a left-behind material from the finished repairs that was done in Bruce’s office. The outsourced repairmen just forgot about it and wasn’t able to secure it on the ground.

His secretary asked if he would like to press charges against the outsourced company but Bruce merely shrugged it off. He’s still alive isn’t he? And it was merely an accident. Plus, he had an appointment to get into.

He brushed off his staffs’ worries and assured that he’ll be alright. He then asked for his secretary to call on his driver as he’ll be getting late to his appointment with the psychiatrist.

The secretary looked reluctant but agreed.

As he slowly comes into consciousness, he noticed that his body felt…heavy. He could feel wetness on the side of his face, a numbing coldness washing over him. He blinked his eyes and noticed that it was quite hard to do so, even as simple as breathing took a lot of energy from him.

He heave a sigh and attempted to wipe away the water on his face when he noticed that he couldn’t move his arms. He was lying down on the floor, stomach on the cold ground, his hands were tied behind him, and his feet like they were shackled with thick, heavy metal.

Panic settled in. His heart began to beat rapidly as he tried to think of a reason why he could be bound and trapped in a cold room. He looked around him, trying his best to move around while his hands and feet were bound. He was in a barely lit room—no, it was wider than a room. The ceilings were very high and though the place looks empty. It looked like—

A warehouse.

Why was he here? Was he still in Gotham? He couldn’t remember much else.

He felt something dripping from his head. His eyes widened when he saw that it was red—blood—his blood. He was bleeding from a head wound. It was then that he came to notice the splitting headache. It was as if his body was slowly remembering the torture he had been through.

The what?

He heard a loud screeching sound. He looked far ahead and saw the huge metal door at the end of the warehouse opening. And then a bright light—the shadow of a figure slowly walking towards him.

His heart began to beat faster. There was a loud ringing in his ears. His mind conjuring nothing but panic. He needed to get away. He needed to get away—

“Are you afraid, Mister Wayne?”

And then maddening laughter surrounded him. He closed his eyes hoping that the next time he opened them, it’ll be somewhere safe—

He felt someone tug on his hair. He winched and suppressed a yelp as his head was violently lifted.

The ceiling suddenly broke. And brightening light engulfed the room.

And then something dropped.

The force on his head disappeared and his head fell on the cold ground. He grimaced and opened his eyes to his right, to the direction in which he heard something dropped.

It was a bird. A black bird. There was a huge stab wound on its body. And it’s drenched on its own blood.

It’s dead eyes staring straight right through him.

Bruce opened his mouth—

And screamed.

Bruce woke up with jolt.

“Sir? Mister Wayne, sir?” the driver asked, curiously from where he sat in front.

Bruce shook his head. “It’s—it’s nothing,” the bird’s dead eyes kept on flashing on his mind every time he tries to blink. “What—”

“We’re here sir,” the driver said, motioning on the two-story house.

Bruce nodded and got out of the car. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

The driver nodded and went off.

Bruce watched his only exit disappear by the corner before sighing. It’s too late to go back. He had already made and paid for the appointment. He had done this numerous times already, visited a lot of psychiatrist and therapist back in the day when he was still on the verge of self-destructing—this shouldn’t be any different.

The door opened, and a young woman in a white dress and a doctor’s coat greeted him. “Mister Wayne?” she had long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, a thin glasses marring her face, and a soft glowing makeup. She looked younger than what Bruce perceived her to be. She extended a hand towards him, professional in her posture and greeting.

“Doctor Quinzel?” Bruce asked, grabbing the hand for a quick handshake.

Doctor Quinzel nodded. She motioned for him to come inside, “Come in, Mister Wayne. You’re just right in time.”

Bruce immediately reverted back to his business persona. “I hope I didn’t trouble you too much doctor.”

Doctor Quinzel laughed. “With the amount you paid me for, trouble wouldn’t be a problem,” she flashed him a teasing smile. “But I did just come back from my shift in Arkham so the room is still—” she waved around “a bit hot? I haven’t opened the air conditioner yet, apologies for that.”

Bruce brushed it off. “No worries, doctor.”

“Oh, help yourself to some cookies as well. My good friend baked them for me, but you can have them. They’re very sweet though,” Doctor Quinzel said, motioning at the cookies placed by the table.

The doctor led Bruce in a private yet relaxing room, just pass the small yet spacious living room. The room was cozy, to say the least, and it doesn’t made Bruce feel like he’s visiting a professional psychiatrist. He was made to feel comfortable enough as if he’ll visiting a friend.

His eyes scanned over the huge bookshelf on the wall, the wide collection of books in it. As Dr. Quinzel came back with two cups of coffee, Bruce tried to ask about the books (he can’t help it, he had dotted too much on his bookworm son that he felt compelled to talk about books, even though he wasn’t as much as reader as Jason is), “You’re very interested in plants, doctor?”

Dr. Quinzel giggle, “Oh those aren’t mine.”

“Oh?”

She placed the cup of coffee and took a seat opposite to his. He noticed that she doesn’t have the usual pad and pen that most psychiatrist would have. Bruce wouldn’t mind it if she had, after all, doctors need to take notes. He wondered then if the doctor has too much memory that she doesn’t need to jot down her notes.

“Those belong to my good friend. We share the house,” she gave a brief smile.

Bruce nodded. “She’s a doctor as well?”

She shrugged. “Yes, PhD. But she’s more of a scientist, I guess.”

Bruce nodded. He grabbed the cup of coffee and took a sip. It was the perfect blend of sugar and brewed coffee.

She smiled. “I hoped it wasn’t too sweet for you?”

“No, not at all,” Bruce shook his head. He took another, almost emptying the cup, before putting it down and focusing back to Dr. Quinzel.

“So, Mister Wayne, what brings you here?”

After recounting what he had been experiencing, Dr. Quinzel remained quiet on her seat. She looked straight at him, her gaze piercing, as if she’s trying to map every veins in his head. It made Bruce felt a little bit uneasy. He felt like a frog awaiting to be dissected by a scientist. His brain, ready to be stitched to their heart’s content.

He coughed and reached for the cookies that was offered to him before. He took a bite and still Dr. Quinzel remained unspoken. Her gaze boring straight to him.

And then Dr. Quinzel leaned on her right, her right hand holding her jaw, she hummed, thinking.

Then finally, she spoke and gave him her diagnostic. “Your mind is actively suppressing yourself from remembering what you’ve been through.”

Bruce grimaced. He knew that already. “I’ve thought as much.”

Dr. Quinzel nodded. “You were kidnapped, Mr. Wayne. Probably have also been tortured,” she said, sounding sure for some reason. And then as if realizing, she backtracked, “Well, we haven’t been privy about what truly happened, but from what you told me, it’s not hard to say that you have been.”

Bruce looked at her. He looked down at his hands, the way that they are holding each other as if he was praying. “I was,” he doesn’t need to remember everything to know that.

What he needed to remember was why. Why was he kidnapped and tortured for days? Why did he woke up to an isolated castle with a different maniac claiming nonsense? Why did he had to go through all that? What was his purpose?

Who kidnapped him in Ethiopia? Who tortured him in that warehouse? And who was that maniac he woke up in?

And how did the Gotham Knights figure out where he was when no one else could.

“Is there anyway we could—you could help me remember?” Bruce asked, desperation was embarrassingly evident on his voice.

Dr. Quinzel winced. She averted his gaze, obviously overly hesitating about something.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He was so close. He could feel the answers slipping pass his hands once more. “Money wouldn’t be a problem, Doctor. I can pay any amount you deemed fit.”

Still Dr. Quinzel looked troubled. She turned back towards him, but for some reason she forcefully averted staring straight at him. Which was very odd, since just minutes ago, her gaze on him was too piercing it made him uncomfortable. “It’s probably best if you don’t remember at all—”

Bruce grimaced. He glared at her, “That’s not what I asked Dr. Quinzel,” he sat straighter, looming over in his seat. He gave her a finality, “Can you help me?”

It was a yes or no question.

Silence enveloped them. Dr. Quinzel closed her eyes and sighed. She looked at her cup of coffee, twirling the cup on its platter. “Yes.”

Bruce sighed a relief. Finally! He was about to ask again when Dr. Quinzel cut him off.

She looked at him, her piercing gaze once again in place. “But it won’t be safe.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked. He internally shivered. He felt wrong for some reason, as if there’s tiny error messages crawling in his skin.

Dr. Quinzel’s gaze did not waiver, in fact, it looked more intense. She was challenging him, testing the edge of his will. “He’s a brilliant mind. Very clever. He’s probably the only one who could help you, Mr. Wayne,” she said, a bit of a different accent slipping in through her voice.

Then in came the hesitation—“But he’s not—” she coughed, and straighten her posture—“He’s not practicing legally right now.”

Bruce’s eyebrow raised. “What?”

Dr. Quinzel sighed. “He’s in Arkham.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Bruce could say.

Dr. Quinzel nodded. “Yes,” she nodded, as if the thought of a ‘mad’ scientist practicing doesn’t bother her, “He’s one of my patients. He’s a neuroscientist and was hailed as an expert in the field. I’ve read some of his works when I was still doing my PhD, and they’re—honestly, his works are one of the reason I chose psychiatry as my field. He’s in Arkham right now, but he’s healing and we’re close on making him ‘sane’ enough—”

“I know what Arkham is, Doctor. You don’t have to explain,” Bruce could feel his head aching. He was so close.

Dr. Quinzel nodded. “Right. He’s a master of hypnosis, and because of his background in neuroscience, I believe he can force your memories back.”

Bruce gulped.

“Your memories are being suppressed by your mind, but they are still there. It’s just a matter of forcing those walls down, and pushing the memories you want in front. And he can do that, Mr. Wayne. He can force you to push those memories where you can access it,” Dr. Quinzel said, a proud smile on her lips.

Bruce didn’t know what to think. He’s ashamed that he did considerer accepting the offer. He knew what kind of people are in Arkham, as he had fought hard to change that place. But he’s also not convince on letting an Arkham patient play around in his head. This doctor may be an expert on his field but—

Maybe he’ll consider it as a last resort—but surely for someone as well-connected as Dr. Quinzel, she could offer him someone else from the Doctor’s community? “I can’t accept that offer, Dr. Quinzel, I’m sorry,” he replied.

In fact, now that the fact fully sinks in on him. He knew what he was most afraid of.

Alfred.

His grandfather would skin him alive if he came to know that he allowed an in-patient from Arkham hypnotize him into remembering his torture.

Dr. Quinzel looked disappointed, but she doesn’t look as upset as Bruce thought she will be. It looked more like she had lost an opportunity, but an easily replaceable opportunity nevertheless. “Well, I can refer you to my other science friend,” she said, looking pleased once more.

Bruce doesn’t like where this is going, “Is he also in Arkham?” Gods, he hoped not.

The question made her laugh. “No, not all my friends are in Arkham.”

So you have friends in Arkham? Bruce shivered at the thought.

“He’s actually a professor in Gotham university—uh, was. He was a professor of psychology in Gotham Uni before, but he’s more of a chemist. He’s currently working in Arkham but he’s not a patient,” Dr. Quinzel laughed at her own private joke. She thought for a bit, she looked like she’s hesitating once more. But thought better of silence. She looked straight at him, “He’s developing a new kind of drug that can control—help—the person to face his fear.”

Bruce’s eyes widened.

Dr. Quinzel’s smile widened, her eyes flashed with unrestrained glee. “We’re actually looking forward to it. It’s a breakthrough medicine for anxiety and PTSD,” she took out her phone from her pocket, “I could call him up and we can get a sample of the drug,” she then looked serious, her eyes challenging once more, “If that is what you want.”

Bruce bit his tongue. “And how will that help me?” He could feel it, he’s getting closer.

She shrugged. “Well, the drug will manifest your fears in a dream-like state. Possibly, when you enter the REM. Once you dream of this fear, it’ll help your body neutralize your feelings towards this fear. It’s like exposure therapy but all done internally. Truly brilliant work!” she said, sounding too much like she’s fangirling over it.

Bruce still doesn’t look convince. “How can we ensure that the drug will pull up my fear of what happened? And not—something else,” the night he lost his parents, for one.

Dr. Quinzel nodded. “He could probably help with that. He has a technique where he can help your mind pit point the exact fear he wanted you to see. It’s more of a general fear, as far as I know. But he was able to extract and manifest a specific type of snake as a person’s fear before.”

“The drug is in experimental phase?” Bruce asked, thinking all while how pitiful the experimental mice could’ve felt.

Dr. Quinzel nodded. “Yes, but it’s already working. Already passed the second phase.”

Bruce nodded. “This professor—”

“Doctor.”

Bruce coughed. “Doctor, who was he?”

Dr. Quinzel smiled. “Doctor Jonathan Crane. We were friends in college so I can assure you, you’re in good hands, Mr. Wayne.”

Jonathan Crane. Yes, Bruce has heard of him. Dr. Crane had asked for funding from the Wayne’s Research Department before but was turned down because Lucius deemed his experiment to be dangerous for its lack of background data. Perhaps the doctor has sorted himself out? If he had been a professor in the Gotham University before and took his research in there, surely it has been peer reviewed and approved by the science board.  He’s not too much privy on how researches are conducted in a university but if Dr. Quinzel was friends with the guy, surely he’s someone as brilliant and well-known as her too?

Bruce couldn’t judge the doctor as being a doctor in Arkham as well. That’s just not a factor that he could consider. After all, he helped ‘clean’ that hospital. And as far as he could remember, the new Chief Doctor has really straightened up the hospital and is getting good results.

He’s partial towards the in-patients though. That much he could reason with.

Bruce nodded. “Okay, Dr. Quinzel. I’ll see what he could do.” He’s so close.

Dr. Quinzel looked ecstatic. “Perfect! I’ll tell him the good news.”

Bruce and Dr. Quinzel talked a bit more, and the doctor assured him that the dreams are normal, since it’s his desire to know manifesting inside his head. “But if it becomes too much, you can take these,” she said, prescribing him some sleeping medicine to help him regulate his rest. She also gave him some medicine that he remembered taking when he was diagnosed with anxiety before.

He said his farewells and left the house. He was surprised to see Alfred already waiting for him outside. His eyes softened, “I could’ve asked our driver to take me home.”

Alfred brushed it off. “Nonsense. I hope the meeting went well?”

Bruce bit his tongue before he could tell Alfred about all the things he considered doing, what he’s planning to do. It was hard, but he feared that Alfred would worry too much for something so trivial as to force his memories in front. After all, they are his memories that he’s trying to suppress. “It was alright.”

Alfred nodded, though he doesn’t look convinced.

Bruce tried his best not to squirm under Alfred’s questioning gaze.

“Will you be coming back?”

Bruce nodded. “I already paid for at least five sessions.”

Alfred sighed. “Of course you did,” he opened the car and helped him inside, “Let’s go home, Master Bruce.”

“He agreed? Really?”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Never expected that from him.”

“Well, he’s desperate.”

“Desperate huh, that’s nice.”

“Yup. Very. So, are you excited?”

“Welcome to Arkham, Bruce Wayne.”

Chapter Text

Dick was fidgeting with the kitchen ware. Despite what his father had said, he was already dressed in his school’s uniform and was sitting in the dining table having breakfast. Because he’s going to school. Period.

Jason was the first to arrive in the dining area, his tie not even tied around his shirt. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Why are you up?”

Dick glared at him, playfully of course, he loves all his brothers equally. “I’m going to school.”

Jason laughed right at his face. “School? Dad said you’re grounded—”

Dick stood up in the table and immediately silenced his brother. “Shhshh!! Dad’s still sleeping.”

Jason pushed Dick’s hand away. “So you’re basically running away, got it.”

“You should be in bed, Master Dick,” Alfred said, yet he served the eldest son a portion of the breakfast. “Master Bruce specifically instructed that you are not to attend class until your shoulder is fully healed.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “You and I both know Alfie that this isn’t even half of what I usually get during patrols.”

“I am well aware, Master Dick. But your father isn’t. And unless you want me to tell him that little fact you have—”

Dick pouted. “I’m getting restless here Alfie! I have nothing to do!” he looked like he’s on the verge of crying and begging Alfred.

Alfred sighed. “Fine, but—” and then in a blink of an eye he used the back tip of the fork to slightly tap Dick in the precise location of the wound.

Dick wasn’t even able to blink yet alone feel the attack.

Alfred nodded, satisfied with what he saw. “Alright. I shall inform Master Bruce, later.”

Dick gave a nervous laugh. “Thank you?”

Alfred smiled before going back to the kitchen to prepare more foods for the brothers.

“What just happened?” Jason stared at the eldest with his eyes wide.

Dick looked just as shocked. “I have no idea.”

Tim and Damian soon came after and they all eat in silence. Tim, with having little sleep again, doesn’t bother asking Dick why he was wearing his uniform. Damian, meanwhile, only stared at Dick before shrugging and digging his food as if he had been starved for days.

After they ate, the boys stood up to prepare their things.

“Father hasn’t woken yet?” Damian asked, turning towards Alfred.

Alfred nodded. “He is still resting, Master Damian.”

Damian nodded. He and his brothers then proceeded towards their father’s room to check (because they’re paranoid like that) on their father and say a whispered goodbye.

Tim frowned upon seeing the bottle of pills on his father’s desk. He was intelligent enough to know that those are pills to neutralize anxiety. And they are quite effective, forcing your body to rest. He pushed down the worry that materializes in him. As long as it helps, Tim reasoned. There’s nothing to worry about. Their father hadn’t been too secretive about his past, when they asked (though Tim had researched thoroughly even so), and open with mental health as well. So Tim was a bit grateful that at least their father is getting the help he needed to cope with what happened.

The whole day, Tim wasn’t able to fully concentrate on whatever it is that his professors are teaching. He knew that he’s capable enough to self-study the others subjects, and he’s way surpassed the level of high school for the computer science course. But there’s still much to learn and he loves studying, the little nerd that he is.

But the whole Mercenary and that Owl man—they kept floating in his head and he found himself checking up his phone for updates around the city every now and then. Good thing, their class isn’t too strict when it comes to cellular devices so he’s pretty safe to view his phone.

Finally, the bell rings, signaling the end of his day. He bid goodbye to some of his friends and went off to meet his brothers. Even though none of them share classes, Jason even jokingly said ‘I see too much of you anyway’ and Damian’s ‘I don’t want to be associated with any of you, he and his brothers meet at the school grounds and wait on each other up before going home.

This time, he was there faster. They all wait for Dick to appear. And as per usual, Dick has to wave to a lot of girls—being the lady’s man that he is. Tim rolled his eyes.

“Sup’ bros,” Dick said, which made all of them cringe.

Damian rolled his eyes.

“Can we walk to the City? I need to buy some books,” Jason said, pulling up a list.

“And you couldn’t order them in because?” Damian raised an eyebrow, though Tim’s pretty sure the little brat isn’t exactly opposed on walking to the city.

“Because some of these have questionable themes, brother. And I don’t want to give Dad a heart-attack,” Jason said, ruffling Damian’s hair.

Dick laughed, “I get ya, I too read some spicey novels.”

Tim looked at him, “Really? You read?”

“I do!” Dick pouted.

Jason laughed. “Okay brats, let’s go.”

Tim sighed. “I’ll take a look at some parts as well.”

“I want fries,” was all Damian said.

Dick hugged his little brother, “I’ll buy you!”

Damian gave a small smile.

During their walk, each of them felt the shadows that are following them. They exchanged glances, little smirks playing on their lips.

“And here I was looking forward to those books,” Jason sighed, jokingly pretending he would rather go to a bookstore that skip the chance to beat up someone.

Damian huffed, “This better be worth my time.”

Tim rolled his eyes, “Try not to cause too much damage, please. I have no time to hack and change records.”

Damian glared at him.

Dick laughed and ruffled Tim’s head. “Timmy is right, brother. Try not to get too much blood, okay?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “I use a sword. How would that not draw blood?”

“If you say no guns, I’ll kick you,” Jason said, already eyeing up some of the shadows that’s trying to hide behind the alleyways. “And are you up to this? You’re still injured.”

Dick grimaced. “Seriously?”

“Poor Dick! Oh! We must get you to safety!” Jason teased, pushing the older a bit, as if to hide him from the enemies.

Dick pushed him off. “I bet I’ll defeat them faster than you. Even when you’re using your precious guns.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Really? Are you challenging me?”

Dick grinned. “Not just you,” he looked at all his brothers, “I’m the leader so it’s natural I’ll do this faster than the rest of you.”

Damian looked like he’s been stabbed. “Excuse me?”

Tim glared at the eldest. “Oh, you’re on.”

Dick laughed and waved them goodbye. “Don’t turn off your comms, mm’kay?” he then ran off.

Jason, Tim and Damian exchanged looks before shrugging and running off in different direction. The shadows that were following them, split as well.

Damian ran off to a far away alleyway and pretended that he got trapped by the wall. He readied his sword on his hand as he faced off the enemies who are trying to take them on. He saw the shadows manifesting into two figures. Each of them has an owl-masks to hide their face. Just like he, they have a long metallic swords on their hands.

“Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne,” the figure on left said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“The Court of Owls invites you,” the figure on the right said.

Both of them walking towards him, menacingly.

Damian glared at them both. “Court of Owls is just a myth. Tell me who you are!” he yelled, edging a bit backwards as the enemies stepped closer to him. He had read some of them when he was still new in the city and was eager to learn about its history.

Beware the Court of Owls, the myth goes. That watches all the time…

“The Court of Owls invites you,” the figure on the right repeated, in the same dull voice he said earlier.

“Are you deaf? I said that shit is a myth!” Damian yelled, readying his weapon. He secretly pulled out his transmitter on his other side and clicked on the emergency. Their enemies have told them who they are. He has no doubt that he could take these two but his brothers needed to be here.

So that was what the metal feather was from? From this delusional cult. He gritted his teeth, how dare they attack his father? How dare they speak even of his father’s name?

And inviting him? Another stupid invitation for him? What the hell?

Speak not a whispered word of them—

Suddenly, the left figure disappeared and reappeared in front of him in a blink of an eye. Their weapons clashed. “Not a myth.”

Damian pushed himself back and used his momentum to attack the figure in front of him. He saw at the corner of his eyes the other one move and easily defended himself from the other’s attack. The other didn’t let him rest and attacked him again. Sooner, he found himself dodging the two rapid attacks consecutively.

He switched his blade and used his weight and agility as an advantage to secure an attack on the one nearest to him. He slashed the enemy and was delighted to see his blade connecting and making a large wound on the other. He pulled up some of his metallic shuriken and used it to distract the other enemy while he rushed off to finish the one injured.

But before he could—smoke filled in the alleyway. He glared at the ground, he stood exactly atop of a sewer manhole. He could see the smoke emitting from it.

His body suddenly felt heavy and he dropped his sword. Soon after, his knees fell on the ground as well. He started coughing, trying desperately not to intake more of the smoke.

But alas, his visions started to blur. He looked up, the Owl figure looming over him. He raised his sword and brought it down.

In spite at the face of defeat, Damian refused to close his eyes. He glared at the sword as it swings on him.

Or they’ll send The Talon for your head.

Tim rolled his eyes as Jason arrived in their vantage point carrying a bag filled with at least four books. He also had a cup of fries on the other. “Wow, you’re early,” Jason said.

Tim shrugged. “Turns out, mine was just a mugger. A mugger!” He rolled his eyes.

Jason laughed. “Well, mine’s basically the same. I think they’re gang members. I saw tattoos.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “What kind?”

“Not related to him, don’t worry,” Jason shrugged.

“Are you sure?”

This time, it was Jason who looked exasperated. “Timmy, I know my way around Gotham’s underground. I know what I saw. And it’s no way connected to the Mercenary.”

Tim doesn’t look fully convinced—he’s planning to search it later, but he doesn’t push Jason further. His older brother looked like he won’t hesitate to hit his head if he asked one more time.

Jason looked around, “Dick’s not here yet?”

Tim looked around, and then to his phone, “Yeah. I was the first one here.”

“Odd,” Jason hummed. Dick doesn’t talk shit, he’s really the fastest and most agile of them all. He had little doubt that he’ll be bragging today.

Silence surrounded them. Tim was so close to panicking when Jason noticed.

“Do you think Dami got a little murderous and started chopping up bodies?” his older brother asked, trying to lighten up the mood. They faced merely petty criminals, maybe the brat was only trying to have a little fun?

Tim grimaced. “He’ll be the one to explain to Alfred about the blood—and I’m not helping him hide the bodies!”

Jason laughed and offered Tim some of the fries. “Here, I’ll buy the brat another one when he gets here.”

It was then that something alerted Tim’s phone. Tim immediately opened up his phone and—dropped the cup of fries he held.

Jason walked up to him in alarm. “Timmy what’s wrong?”

Tim’s eyes widened in fear. “That’s impossible—”

Jason grabbed his hand that holds the phone and turned it towards him. And just as Tim, his eyes widened in shock. “No—that can’t be—”

Because in the CCTV live footage of the Gotham harbor, there stood the Mercenary. He was dressed differently, a plain suit for one, but the clownish makeup stayed the same. He stood more with poise, as he watched over the shipment of what no one doubts to be illegal goods being imported in the harbor.

“How is that—” and then Jason’s communication device flashed in alarm as well.

Damian Wayne is calling for an emergency.

“Fuck!” Jason yelled. He dropped his books and grabbed Tim, who was standing still, gaze lost as his eyes remained glued on the feed. “Tim! We need to go! Dami needs us!”

That shook Tim out of his stupor. He nodded. And then they took off—forgetting that they’re supposed to be waiting for their other brother.

But no worries, Dick would no doubt be contacted as well. And he’ll be there. With them.

Right?

Chapter Text

Bruce woke up late. The sun had already risen, basking his huge master’s bedroom with its light. He groaned, hating the way that the light flashed directly at him, as it burns his eyelids every time he closes his eyes.

“Good morning Master Wayne,” he heard Alfred spoke from his side.

He squinted his eyes, despite his head’s aching protest, and looked at Alfred.

His grandfather was serving him a platter of freshly baked cookies, his nose waking up from the delicious smell, and a fresh glass of warm milk as well. The perfect breakfast. His favorite. The same one that Alfred gave him every time that he notices that Bruce isn’t like himself—when he was acting ‘weird’ because of his condition.

He will be forever thankful for the existence of Alfred in his life. The one who literally pulled him out of his self-destructive phase and pushed him to do better.

Bruce owed Alfred his life. And he will be forever thankful for Alfred.

Yet you are keeping secrets from him—

“Good morning Alfred,” Bruce said, scrubbing some dirt from his eyes. He eyed the cookies and grabbed one, savoring the flavor on his mouth. “The kids been to school?” he asked, in between chewing the cookie.

Alfred nodded. “They’re already in their respective classes, yes.”

Bruce sighed, “And Dick?” he knew that his son was feeling restless on the Manor. Dick had changed too much from the quiet and unspoken kid that he had once been when he first went into the Manor. After the Court, after he had chosen to go home, it was like a switch had changed Dick’s personality. He had gone from being a quiet and reserved kid to being a playful and energetic kid that a shocked Bruce had problems keeping up.

Dick hadn’t changed since then. He was still his energetic son who was flexible and adventurous enough to seek high places to hide. He had gone through so much trouble, Bruce couldn’t even count the times he almost had a heart attack seeing Dick hiding somewhere Bruce couldn’t even reach. So he understands why Dick wouldn’t want to simply stay put and heal. He had never been like that, even when he got injured as a kid.

Alfred sighed, and Bruce could already hear the words before Alfred could as so much as to utter them, “He had insisted on going with his brothers.”

Bruce closed his eyes, “And you said yes?”

Alfred nodded. “I said yes.”

Bruce let out a chuckle. “He got you wrap around his fingers, still Alfie,” he teased.

“And you as well.”

“And I as well.”

He felt relaxed. As he grabbed the glass of milk, he noticed the bottle of pills that Dr. Quinzel prescribed him with. Must be because of that, Bruce thought. He knew that those are effective, having taken them before. It must’ve been the familiar feeling that he had been experiencing.

The sound of the doorbell broke what peaceful trance that Bruce and Alfred found themselves in. Alfred immediately excused himself to go to the front door. Bruce chose that time to get up from his bed and take a quick shower.

He dressed in his suit—his usual business attire—and went on to the living room to see who graced the Manor with its presence.

“Mr. Lincoln March is here to see you,” Alfred said, as Bruce gets down from the stairs.

Lincoln March was the Chief Operating Officer of March Ventures, another conglomerate business that resides in Gotham. However, their operations weren’t as big as Wayne Enterprises (is there really a comparison?), but Lincoln had been Bruce’s classmate in his boarding school for elites, and they have been good friends. Plus, March Ventures was a business partner of Wayne Enterprises.

Thus, Bruce has no trouble welcoming his old classmate into his home. “Lincoln! Welcome to the Manor!” he greeted him, and hugged him like an old pal.

Lincoln greeted him back. “Bruce!” he gave him a big smile.

However, after their brief hug, Lincoln looked troubled, his smile became more forced. “How’d you been? You had—” he sighed, “I’ve heard about the incident in Ethiopia,” March Ventures was among the businesses which has been invited to attend the Gala, however, a day before the event, Lincoln messaged him that he’ll be pulling out and not attending, citing an emergency with his kid.

He looked so heartbroken, his eyes glistening with restrained tears, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Bruce’s eyes softened. Leave it to his friend to blame himself over something which he cannot control. “Oh, buddy, you are not at fault.”

Lincoln doesn’t look convinced. “After all you’ve done for me, for my business,” Bruce had fought the board to take in March Ventures when it was on the verge of bankruptcy, Lincoln had made bad decisions after another as his new born son cling to his life and his wife almost leaves him. Just as Bruce, Lincoln is, as his core, a family man. “I should’ve been there with you. I should’ve been there defending for you.”

Bruce brushed his concerns off. What else could an ordinary man like Lincoln do? Just as all the wealthy elites in the Gala, none of them were able to stop the Clown from taking him. Lincoln has nothing to be sorry for. “Please, do not think anymore of it.”

“I understand,” Lincoln nodded. He sighed and it looked more like Bruce had personally removed a thorn on his side. He looked back at him, though his eyes held something else. Lincoln looked towards Alfred, who had been serving in the dining area, before turning back at Bruce. He leaned in, whispering at Bruce’s ears, “Can we talk somewhere private? I need to tell you something.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. He assessed Lincoln and wondered what the other might have to tell him that he doesn’t want Alfred to know. It was no secret among his close circle of friends, especially those he had met during his boarding school, that he and Alfred are quiet close. That Alfred had become the father that Bruce never had. Lincoln knew that.

It raised alarm in Bruce’s head. However, what’s one more secret?

Haven’t you been hiding enough?

Bruce nodded and led Lincoln to the upper floor, to his private library. “We’ll go down later, Alfred,” he called off, giving off the signal that they shouldn’t be disturbed.

“Understood, Master Bruce,” Alfred nodded, his still gaze turned towards Lincoln, “And welcome once more, Master Lincoln.”

Lincoln nodded, but Bruce noticed that he couldn’t, for some reason, meet Alfred’s gaze.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?” Bruce asked as soon as he closed the door to his library.

Lincoln stood in front of the huge window that the library had, the sun casting him a shadow on the ground. His gaze were strained on the ground bellow, his voice heavy with regret, and an edge of fear, “An ancient evil had come to Gotham.”

Bruce, who was walking towards his friend, paused in his step. “What?”

Lincoln still didn’t turn his gaze to him. “They have warned me about what’ll happen to the Gala,” he began, his voice getting softer yet strained, as if he was actively fighting his lips from speaking.

It was then that Lincoln turned towards Bruce, there are tears in his eyes, yet he does nothing to wipe them away, letting them freely cascade down his cheeks. He looked so broken, so utterly defeated. And Bruce doesn’t know why. “I—” Lincoln looked away, “They threatened me. They said they would save my son.”

Bruce nodded.

“A life for a life,” Lincoln swallowed. “They said he’ll give back my son’s life in exchange for another.”

Bruce closed his eyes, his fist clenching hard as he suppressed the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume him.

“They wanted you on that Gala, Bruce. They wanted you there,” Lincoln said, his voice breaking in front of the revelation.

“Who?” Bruce said, unable to look back at Lincoln.

Lincoln—who never warned him about what will happen to the gala.

Lincoln—who allowed him to get kidnapped and be declared death.

Lincoln—who was at fault—who let his family, Alfred, his sons, to grieve.

He couldn’t look at his friend, not right now. Not when the image of his friend is morphing into something else. Something dangerous. Something—

“The Court,” Lincoln said, fear in his voice. He was shaking, his tears making him look like a five-year old child talking about the boogeyman in his closet.

It shook Bruce up. He looked up, his eyes widening, “The Court?”

Lincoln nodded. “The Court of Owls.”

Bruce mouth opened in shook. He felt as if someone had electrocuted him. His whole body began to shiver as the memory of that day came rushing back at him.

He was at his office. He had a talk with his secretary. He was about to close his laptop when—

Beware The Court of Owls

That watches all the time

Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch

Behind granite and lime.

“The Court of Owls?” He closed his eyes, his head began to ache. It was as if there’s a force in his mind, threatening to split his head open. “That—” he grimaced, he had to lean his body to the nearest table, pushing himself up and preventing himself from falling down on the ground. He had heard of that. He knew of that.

“But that is a myth, nothing but a story that people tell their kids!” he glared at Lincoln, the past came rushing back at him. He had believed in the Court when he was a child. But that was before he knew the difference between a myth and reality. The world taught him of that fact, and it almost cost him his life.

“I wish it was, gods, I desperately wish all of these aren’t real,” Lincoln said, wiping away the tears that is marring his face. He looked sternly back at Bruce, finally collecting the courage that escaped him. “Bruce—they’ll be out for you. They won’t stop till they get you.”

Bruce shook his head. “It’s not real—The Court isn’t real—”

He could feel his stomach rumbling. The phantom pain of almost dying of hunger after being stuck, unable to move his body, consumed him. He could feel bile rising out of his throat. The world was morphing together, his vision blurring, his ears filling with deafening static. He couldn’t. Not again—

Lincoln tried to touch him in the shoulder, but Bruce pushed him away. His eyes widened, utterly consumed by the fear of his past. “The Court isn’t real—”

Lincoln grabbed his arms and shook him. “It is real Bruce. And it’s coming for you! Listen to me!” his eyes were blaring with anger, forcing Bruce to understand as if it was a matter of life and death. And perhaps, it is.

Bruce opened his mouth but Lincoln shook his head. “Please.”

Bruce closed his mouth and nodded.

Lincoln signed. “They will be looked for you. I—can’t tell you why.”

The anger rushed back in Bruce’s veins. He glared at his so-called friend.

“But I can tell you this,” Lincoln looked back, his gaze piercing as he stared straight through Bruce. “When the Talon came knocking,” he said, “Don’t fight it. Don’t fight the Court.”

Bruce opened his mouth to speak—but Lincoln cut him off with another shake.

“Promise me, Bruce. Promise me that you won’t fight the Court,” he looked troubled, as if Bruce’s words were the only assurance he needed to breathe again.

And Bruce…despite the anger he felt towards his ‘friend’, was too kind to deny him of his breathe. Despite not wanting to, Bruce nodded his head and agreed. “I won’t.”

Lincoln sighed. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he grabbed Bruce and enveloped him in a hug.

But Bruce couldn’t lift his arms, couldn’t force himself to hug the other back. So he closed his eyes, his arms laying limp by his side, and sighed, “I know.”

Lincoln looked more composed when they get back down in the dining area. Alfred was in the kitchen heating up the soup, when Lincoln said, “You don’t have to, Alfred. I’ll only stay for a bit,” he gave him a smile before taking a seat and biting some of the freshly baked cake on the table.

Bruce nodded and gave a smile to Alfred as well, forcing his emotions back in the box where he hid them. He grabbed a cup of coffee and used its hot liquid to stabilize himself, focusing on the warmth it brings on his throat.

After a few minutes, Lincoln stood up and politely bit a goodbye. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Bruce,” he said, all politeness, all fake.

Bruce nodded. He and Lincoln exchanged a friendly—stiff—handshake, devoid of the warmness and comradery they shared just hours ago.

Bruce ended up not going to the Wayne Tower. He had been so distracted with what Lincoln had revealed to him. He refused to get back to his old obsession—to the books that he said he’ll throw but didn’t—to his old references, to the clipped newspaper collection that he had hidden. He refused to get back to his old self and relive those moments.

The Court is—should—be a myth.

A secret organization that watches and owns Gotham? A group of super selective elites whose combined wealth warrants them secrecy and absolute control over a whole city? That’s preposterous. That should be insane!

But haven’t you once came looking for them—

And what did he find? An empty house. An empty stomach. A child on the verge of death.

“The Court isn’t real,” he told himself, like a madman, he kept on whispering on himself. Perhaps if he told himself of it enough times, it’ll become a reality.

Fuck.

Hadn’t he already has enough on his plate? And now this? The Clown—his kidnapping and apparent torture—a mystery he wasn’t even close on figuring out and then the world threw him this. The Court of Owls! The thing he had been obsessing when he was a kid—apparently it’s real. Apparently what he had almost died trying to prove—was real! Everyone who laughed at him, who worried that he’s gone insane—apparently they’re the insane ones because the Court is real!

Court of Owls is real!

What in the fucking hell—

Bruce groaned. He grabbed his keys and coat and went to the garage. He needed to talk to Lincoln, he needed concrete proof that Lincoln isn’t messing with him. That the Court is real.

So that does mean that his theory was correct? That they’re the one who—

“Master Wayne?” Alfred asked by the door. “Where—”

“I need to talk to Lincoln,” Bruce merely said, ignoring the troubled gaze that follows him. He’ll explain everything to Alfred later after he made sense of what his friend was talking about. Alfred didn’t need to relive the past like Bruce was experiencing right now.

After all, Alfred had been the one who found him almost dead. He was the one who saved him in that empty house. He need not remember the feeling of almost losing him. He knew it’ll break Alfred once more. His pseudo-father is too kind like that.

Bruce closed the door to the Manor and never looked back.

Bruce speeds off in the highway as he chases time. He was in one of his expensive sports cars. He was still well-aware of the speed limit on the highway, and though he could push through and just pay off the ticket, he doesn’t want to endanger any other vehicle. He’s in a hurry, but he isn’t reckless. And he wasn’t a murderer.

Still, he was driving on a very fast way. He was about to turn on the highway when he noticed another car speeding towards him, swiveling on the others, so intent on seemingly bumping to him. Fear flooded Bruce’s senses and he intentionally missed his turn in order to speed off further into the highway. The car that he noticed earlier speeded up to keep up with him and Bruce knew that the car was meant for him.

He swiveled and turned, getting out of the highway and into the forest on the outskirts of the road. If the other car will be so intent as to bump into him, Bruce will not let the collision endanger anyone else.

He slowed down and—

Another car bumped into him. He was blindsided by the accident, the car ramming on his side until his car reached the edge of a tree. The car following him speeded up before bumping him in front of his car, breaking up his car’s engine. Bruce’s head bumped into the emergency air balloon of his car. At least it cushioned him enough not to cause too much concussion. His head was still spinning when he lifted them, the seat belt he wore bruising him from the collision.

He looked towards the car, and to his side. “What—”

And then something heavy landed on the upper part of his car, bending it. He bowed down to avoid getting hurt. He looked up—but something landed on his side. He turned and saw the Owl man. The man grabbed his door and forcefully detached it from the car. He then sliced off the seatbelt and pulled Bruce towards him, dragging him outside. Bruce yelled in pain.

He tried to fight off the enemy but his head was still spinning from the collision. He missed. He tried once more but his fist was caught by the enemy.

“The Court of Owls invites you, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce eyes widened.

He heard Lincoln’s voice echoing in his head, louder than the ringing in his ears.

Don’t fight it. Don’t fight the Court.

And Bruce…promised.

He closed his eyes and surrendered to the Court.

They watch you at your hearth

They watch you in your bed

Speak not a whispered word of them

Or they'll send The Talon for your head.

Chapter Text

They were too late.

When they got to where the last location of Damian was—it was to an empty alleyway. Jason was the first to spot the Katana that Damian always carries. It was buried in the pile of garbage at the corner. His brother’s eyes grew dim. He clenched on the swords, eyes blazing with unrestrained anger.

“Who did this?” his voice wasn’t loud, yet Tim felt his body shivered with the coldness of it.

Jason looked like a lion ready to tear apart its prey.

He never thought there would come a time when he too will be afraid of what his brother was capable of. And looking at Jason right now, Tim could barely imagine what he would do once they found out the culprit.

Tim looked around, hoping to find his brother’s communication device. The ping was still located on where they precisely stood, so the device should be around here. “Where is it—”

Jason looked over at him, his anger morphing slightly to curiosity. “What are you looking for?”

“Dami’s comms, it should be around here—” He stared down at the manhole. A simple round metal that separates the road from the sewers below. And then to the red ping that mocked him in his phone’s screen.

The idea struck him like lightning. “Jay! Lift this up,” he said, pointing at the manhole. He stepped back.

Jason didn’t even ask why. He grabbed the handle and lifted the metal with a huff.

The smell of the sewer greeted them. Jason huffed, standing up, shielding his nose from the foul smell. Tim handed him an extra mask from his bag. And then he slowly went down the sewer, using the metal ladder on the side. Jason followed suit.

The smell was stronger once they are below. Tim pulled up his flashlight and looked around. And just a few steps away, he saw Damian’s communication device on the side of the sewer, screen still blaring with an emergency signal. “He’d been here,” he said to Jason.

Jason’s anger came back with full force. He glared at the device and then around the sewer. “But where did they—”

He suddenly crunched down, barely avoiding a dagger thrown at where his face was supposed to be. The dagger clang as it met the ground. Tim immediately flashed his light to the direction where the dagger came from.

Jason grabbed an extra flashlight and flashed it on the same direction.

There stood the enemy who attacked their father. A man with an owl mask.

Jason didn’t think twice. He drew his gun and fired—

But the Owl man was faster. He dodged the bullet as if he was trained to do so. In a blink of an eye, he was in front of Jason. He pulled up a fist, and Jason met it with his arms, blocking it from hitting his face. And because neither of the brothers wore their full gears, Jason went down and rolled over the dirty sewer.

“Jay!” Tim screamed. He didn’t have enough time to see if his brother was alright before the Owl man descended into him. He pulled out his baton and blocked the attack. He used his lean frame and honed dodging skills (from Dick’s training) to continually block and dodge the aggressive attacks from the enemy.

And when he saw the chance, he hit the man on its side, using all of his energy to push the enemy back.

The enemy rolled over. And Tim used that moment to go to Jason. He saw as his brother coughed a bit of blood. His arm was already bruised from the attack. Tim helped Jason up. They were about to escape when another figure appeared in front of them.

Jason and Tim were immediately in a defense mode, ready to block any income attacks.

But instead, smoke envelops them. They tried to fight off from inhaling it, but at the end, they lost.

Their bodies fell down on the dirty sewer ground, immobilized, unconscious, but alive.

Bruce slowly opened his eyes, adjusting to the blinding light. He was still in suit, clean, laid atop a soft red carpet. He slowly stood up, and noticed that he was on the ground of what seemed to be a theater. They were elevated floors above him, and each of them had chairs with golden designs. It was like the stadium from ancient Rome, but instead of Romanians as the audience, he has well-dressed people wearing owl masks looking down on him. They were seated on the chairs, comfortable as they judge him.

Bruce glared at them.

Finally, a man at the center stood up. His mask was different. Instead of a plain white mask in a shape of an owl, his was golden plated, with only half of his face covered.

A cruel smile was displayed on his lips.

“Welcome to the Court of Owls, Bruce Wayne.”

Tim woke up completely submerged in water. He immediately quenched the panic state in which he woke up in. There was a mask on his face, supplying him with oxygen. He was trapped in a tube-like structure that’s filled with nothing but water.

He touched the top of the tube and felt for something he could pull. He mapped out the mechanism of the tube with his hand. And when he noticed something above him, he pulled out the wires and punched the top side with all the force he could muster.

As planned, the structure gave up and opened. Tim immediately jumped off and fell down. The glass of the tube coming down with him, breaking on the floor.

He coughed out the excess water that tried to get into his lungs as the mask got destroyed.

And then he heard another crash. He saw Jason, kneeling on the ground. He was drenched in water just as he, coughing out water.

Tim looked around and found that they were in a room surrounded by similar tubes. He stood up and walked to the nearest one. It was a corpse. A decaying corpse of a woman preserved in water.

“Tim—” Jason was upon him, searching him, looking for injuries. “Are you alright?”

Tim nodded. He looked over at his brothers, doing the same. “I am.”

Jason sighed, thankful when he found no injuries. He then looked around, just as Tim does. “Where are we?”

“They took us here.”

“The Owls?”

Tim nodded.

Jason grimaced. “Do they know?”

“About us?” Tim asked, about us being the Knights? Was the question left unsaid. He took in the form of his brothers and the fact that they captured Damian. “It’s a possibility.”

“Fuck—” Jason cursed, brushing his hair in obvious discomfort.

“Careful. Dick will—” And then Tim cut himself off. He was about to tease Jason about Dick scolding him, a running joke among the Wayne brothers, but found that the object of his joke was lacking. “Where was Dick?” In fact, they haven’t seen him ever since he took off, bragging about him winning their little game.

Jason looked alarmed. The chaos of the Mercenary’s discovery and Damian’s emergency signal had completely blindsided them on the fact that their brother isn’t with them right now. “He’s supposed to follow us,” he said, worry etching at the edge of his voice.

Tim grimaced. He couldn’t check on his phone because their properties are taken from them. He looked around once more, trying to locate if the room will provide them with anymore clues.

It didn’t. They are complete defenseless. Trapped in their enemy’s base. Missing two brothers.

What the hell are they supposed to do?

Bruce glared at the pretenders. The insane people pretending as if the Court of Owls—a Gotham myth—is something real. And he’ll wake these people up. “The Court of Owls is a myth.”

The Leader cocked his head on the side. “Do we look like a myth to you Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce gritted his teeth. He couldn’t believe them. Because if he does—if the Court of Owls is real then that means—

The Leader grinned, his smile turning more malicious as he gazed down on Bruce. “We have been waiting for you for a long time.” He said, his voice teasing, like an uncle welcoming his favorite niece. He motioned then towards an empty seat by his side, “Your seat remains empty on our table.”

Bruce eyes widened. What the fuck? “I’m not—I’m not a part of you. I’m not a part of this.” He spoke the word with as much venom as he could muster. These people are fucking with him. They’re playing him for a fool. He had searched—tried several times to uncover the truth about the Court. And he found nothing. And now? Now these people, with their fake masks, are pretending as if the delusion that Bruce has before—the obsession that consumed him—is real?

Stop fucking with him.

The Leader laughed. “Oh Mr. Wayne, we were hoping you’ll be different,” he said, his voice echoing with unsaid threat. “We are hoping you’ll be following your family’s footsteps.”

Bruce’s mouth gaped. “What—”

“The Waynes have been a founding member of the Court,” the Leader said, speaking as if he’s a history professor lecturing his class. “Why do you think the Waynes’ were so ingrained in the City?” He leaned over the edge, his smile turning manic, “It’s because the Court owns Gotham!”

“You’re insane!” Bruce yelled, he could feel his mind slipping.

“Your father has been one of us,” the Leader said, opening his arms as he motioned around the room.

Bruce’s eyes widened. “That’s—”

“Impossible?” the Leader asked, voice mocking.

Bruce gritted his teeth. “Wrong.” His father wouldn’t join a cult—especially nothing as delusion as this Court. Owning Gotham? How entitled could you be?

“You’re right. He should have been,” the Leader’s said, snarling in anger. “Your father was too prideful for his own good. He thought he was better off being a fool.”

Bruce felt a part of him relax upon knowing that. His father wasn’t a delusional maniac. His father isn’t one of them.

“The Court offered the Waynes a last chance to redeem themselves and bring the glory back to the Court, but they refused. Repeatedly. Which is why they must be punished,” the Leader said, glaring down at Bruce. The same cruel smile reappeared in his face once more.

Bruce eyes’ widened. “What do you mean—”

“No one refuses the Court. No one is above the Court,” the Leader said, he motioned forward and a man dressed in all black with a golden owl mask covering his face appeared by the shadows. He was the dressed similarly to the man who attacked Bruce in his office. “Talon is here to offer you once more, Bruce Wayne.”

Talon walked forward, he stood directly in front of Bruce. He lifted up his right hand, on its place, is a white owl mask similar to what the others wore.

Bruce glared at it, and to those who sat on their seats. “I will not a part of this.” This insanity. This monstrosity.

The Leader smiled. He lifted his hand once more and motioned. A hole opened on the ground behind Bruce and a metal cage was lifted from the ground.

Bruce’s heart dropped.

“Damian?”

Tim and Jason were running blindly on a long corridor. They have escaped from the room—after Jason forcefully opened the door and they found themselves running in a general direction.

“Are you sure we aren’t lost?” Jason asked, though he didn’t question Tim when his little brother started running in a direction.

“I am!” Tim said. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but something tells him that this was the right route that they should go.

Jason remained silent.

And then—something caught their eyes. A figure emerged from the shadows. The figure was dressed in black, the same mask on its head, yet unlike the enemies who attacked them in the sewer, this enemy was shorter, almost the same height as Tim.

The brothers looked at the figure warily. It doesn’t matter that the enemy’s figure is different from the others. They still wore the same mask.

The brothers readied themselves. Jason putting himself slightly in front of Tim.

But then, the figure pulled out two bags—both belongs to the brothers. The figure threw it at the brothers’ feet, followed by Damian’s Katana.

It then pointed them at the right, to a different direction.

“What—” before Tim could ask, the figure disappeared back into the shadows.

It’s voice echoing around the empty corridor…

“Hurry.”

Damian was dressed still in his school’s uniform. Though he doesn’t look harmed. He was stood in front of the prison, his arms crossed and glaring.

Although, the instance he saw his father’s frightened eyes, his face softened. And he became afraid. Not for himself, but for his defenseless father.

Now in the mercy of the Court.

Bruce ran towards the cage, eager to unite with his youngest child. But as soon as he touched the metal, electricity surrounded him. He yelled in pain as he was electrified. He fell down on the ground. Two of the Talons moved forward, each grabbing his arms and hauling him forcefully up.

They turned him back towards the Leader.

Damian gritted his teeth. Because he was caught defenseless by the Court, his precious  taken from him as well, he couldn’t do anything to defend his father. He could only stand and watch as the Court uses him as a bargaining chip.

Bruce was not above begging. His eyes were wide with fear and worry. He begged the court to let go of his precious son. “He’s only a child!” He yelled at these heartless creatures, “Please—” he bowed down, tears threatening to fall, “Let my son go,” his voice was as defeated as his soul.

He was once again put in a situation when he couldn’t do anything else.

Fuck. Why was he always so helpless? Why was he always so defenseless when his sons were put into danger?

He shouldn’t be like this. He should’ve been able to defend his son. He was their father for fuck’s sake—He should’ve—He should’ve—

“I will ask again, Mr. Wayne,” the Leader said, his cruel eyes dancing in glee as he took in the pathetic state of the head of Wayne Enterprises. “Will you pay for your father’s sins?”

Bruce bowed down. He clenched his fists in anger but he couldn’t do anything. The answer was already on his lips.

“No!!” Damian yelled from where he was trapped in the cage. He hated this—hated how he couldn’t fight these cowards who is threatening his father. The Court of Owls? More like a bunch of cowards in mask! He was about to kick the metal cage, damn the consequences—

When the whole place exploded.  

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne has never been able to accept his parents’ death.

He was still a child, yet his father revered him to be much more. He never talked down on him, always speaking to him as if he were on the same level of intellect.

Bruce remembered the time when he went to the private library of his father. He was surprised to see that the model of the Gotham City was finished. His father has been obsessing over it, spending many late nights in his library building up the figure.

But it wasn’t exactly Gotham City. No, this City was something more. It was more prosperous, more buildings, more structures, a complete renovation.

At its center stood the Wayne Tower. Proud in its glory.

“Do you like it?” his father asked, he carried Bruce and sat him on his lap. He started pointing at the landmarks, at the buildings that have yet to exist, at the structures, at the train stations that aren’t built yet.

Bruce was too amazed to speak. He listened eagerly to all the splendid plans that his father had in store of the city.

His father looked at him, happy to see his son admiring the city of his dreams. “We’ll build a better Gotham,” he said. He hugged Bruce tighter and kissed him on his cheeks, “We’ll build a better city for you.”

Bruce Wayne could never accept the city’s grief. Because Thomas and Martha Waynes are well-known to be for the people, a philanthropist of their own, that despite their wealth, they never looked down on anyone, the City grieved the death of the Waynes.

Bruce has to attend two funerals: a public and a private one. The public was crowded with lots of ordinary citizens wanted to pay respect and give thanks to the lovers who helped them achieve their dreams. Some have been helped through various charities of the Waynes, others are a product of their abundant scholarships.

The private one was attended by close friends of the family, some members of the business community, and some friends that Bruce made in his age and their families as well.

Through it all, Bruce remained silence.

It’s just—everything was just wrong.

His parents weren’t evil people. They’re only doing what they did to better the City. They’ve helped thousands of people—just look at those who attended the funeral—so what was the reason that his parents die?

Their death couldn’t be Karma. All they did was try to help the city. All they did was try to renovate the city to what it could be.

Why is Gotham punishing them? Why has a random mugger chose that exact place—at that exact time—to shoot and kill two wealthy individuals?

He didn’t even take my mother’s pearls. He didn’t even take my father’s wallet.

And so as soon as the funeral was finished. As soon as his parents’ coffins were buried on the ground. Bruce Wayne started to seek for answers. He couldn’t accept what the Detective told him. He couldn’t accept what Alfred had told him.

This isn’t—there must be something more. His parents’ death couldn’t be just a random incident. No, there’s something more. Something sinister.

Anything. Any reason.

So Bruce searched. Day and night, he went to his books, to the libraries—chasing after the answer he wanted to hear. Alfred has tried to stop him, but Bruce was too stubborn for his own good. He was too young to understand grief and so he focused his emotions onto something else.

One day, his obsession manifested an answer he longed to hear.

The Court of Owls.

An aristocratic secret society which is centuries old with immense power and influence embedded into the very architecture and history of Gotham City. A secret society that thinks they owned the City. Who was watching in the shadows, dictating every move, every political advances, every building that was ever and will be made.

That’s it.

The Court must have seen what his parents are doing. They must have not wanted it. They were the bad guys. The evil ones who wanted to control the city. His father’s dream of a better world must have a threat to them.

Holding on to the sketch of a man wearing an owl mask, Bruce Wayne set on an adventure to make the true evil pay for his parents’ death.

“There was nothing. No ransom demands, no missing reports, nothing,” Alfred said, eyes rimmed with red from crying for days.

Bruce Wayne has gone missing for three days straight. The police weren’t able to locate him. Their radios were silent, no one demanded in exchange for Bruce’s safety. Alfred searched everywhere—and it was only with sheer luck that he discovered where the little child had been.

Bruce, who was only eight years old, was hold up in an empty house. An abandoned house. He fell down from the floor and into the basement below, his feet twisted oddly in the process. He wasn’t able to move, the pain rendered him unable to yell loud enough to draw attention.

He was bruised. Malnourished. He was lying only on a dirty blanket.

Yet he was alive. His breathe might be slow. But he’s breathing.

Alfred was beyond ecstatic when he found Bruce. He looked as if he had found his reason to breathe. He was quick to usher in the police and the ambulance. They took the young boy to the hospital and nursed him back to health. Fortunately, with the immense wealth combined with a dedicated Alfred, Bruce was able to regain his muscles and heal his broken feet.

It took a while for Bruce to become coherent again. When the police later questions him why he was in the area, in the abandoned house, if he had been alone—

Bruce opened his mouth to answer only to close it once again.

He couldn’t remember. He doesn’t know why he was in the area, why he was in an abandoned house, if he had been truly alone—

He doesn’t know.

The fact threw him into a state of panic, and Alfred fearing for his ward’s safety, immediately ushered out the police. And no further questions were directed to him again.

Bruce was crying when Alfred came back to the room. He was hugging his knees, shedding all his tears. The grief of losing both of his parents finally settling in. Alfred sat by his side and gave him a hug.

“It’ll be alright. I will be here.”

Bruce lets go of his knees and hugged Alfred, burying his face on his shoulders. “Don’t leave me, please.”

Alfred hugged back, his tears threatening to fall.

And in a broken voice, he whispered. “Never. You will never be alone.”

Chapter Text

Jason and Tim used the chaos to their advantage.

Tim quickly worked his way around the Talons, who immediately jumped towards the commotion, and used his baton, which is technically enhanced to reroute electric current, to forcefully open up the cage. “Stay still!” he yelled over at Damian.

Damian nodded and did as he was told.

Meanwhile, the Leader jumped over to where Bruce stood and kicked him down.

Bruce, having little self-defense knowledge, was brought down immediately. The Leader used this opportunity to tower over him. He opened up fist and brought out a the sharpened feather and brought it down, attempting to stab Bruce through the heart.

But Jason was faster. He saw the attack and shot—hitting the Leader’s hand.

Blood splattered on Bruce’s face. His eyes wide in shook as he took in the red liquid marring his face. The Leader immediately stood up and made distance between them, locking back at Jason and his already smoking gun trailed at him. He grimaced. “What a waste of talent.”

“What a waste of oxygen,” Jason spit back.

Bruce turned towards the person who shot the gun. He was dressed in a white long-sleeves. He had an owl mask over his face, a smoking gun on his hands, but it was pointed on the Court’s Leader. “What—”

“Father!” Damian yelled, immediately enveloping Bruce in a hug.

Bruce gasped and turned towards his youngest. He immediately kneeled to get on his level and wrapped him in a crushing hug. “Oh Dami! I’m sorry you got into this mess,” he said, he wanted to apologize more, for being weak, for being unable to do anything, but the commotion drew attention from them again.

There was a lot of yelling as the members of the Court started running around.

“Get him out!” another person, but shorter than the one holding a gun, said. He had another owl mask but he’s helping—them? Bruce couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Damian nodded. “Let’s go father,” his youngest said, dragging Bruce away from the center of the commotion.

Another explosion happened, and Bruce immediately wrapped his arms around Damian, shielding him from the debris.

“Hurry!”

“Got it!” Damian untangled himself from his father’s arms and dragged him once more.

“Dami—”

“Please. Father, we have to go!” Damian said, cutting off whatever Bruce was about to say.

Bruce nodded and let his youngest lead him.

Meanwhile, Jason turned towards the Leader who was already making his way towards the opposite direction, probably to hide until the commotion dies down.

Jason immediately gave chase.

The Leader, having better idea of the layout of the stadium, was able to quickly turn left and right, finding out hidden pathways and scurrying like a scared mouse. But Jason didn’t bother. He was faster—determined to capture the Leader. He was bringing this bitch into justice—and justice was too far away, then he’ll bring justice through his hands.

He aimed his gun and fired.

The Leader looked back, his eyes widened, mouth opening in shock—

Jason smirked.

But before the bullet connected with the Leader, a sword cut it.

Jason gaped. What?

A Talon stood in front of him, wielding a sharp Katana. His face was covered with the same mask, his well-built body covered with an all-black leather coat.

The Leader smiled. “Right on time, Talon.” He spoke as if he could already taste victory on his lips.

Jason gritted his teeth. He reloaded his gun and fired multiple shots—yet none of them connected with the Talon, nor to the Leader. All of it has been blocked the monstrosity that stood between him and the Leader.

The Leader slowly walked back, until he could run away from the fight.

“Hey!” Jason pulled out a dagger and threw it at the Leader, but the Talon blocked it once more.

He gritted his teeth and pulled out another, before jumping and attacking the Talon head on. His attacks were aggressive, aiming to maim and possibly kill without remorse. He needed to remove this obstacle in order to give chase to the Leader of the Court.

But his attacks were all blocked by the Talon. He couldn’t connect one single attack to the Talon’s body. He threw the dagger, and predictably the Talon blocked it, but Jason has a surprised attack, as soon as Talon formed his body to deflect the dagger, he twisted and rounded up a kick towards the Talon.

However, the Talon was quick. He jumped backwards to avoid Jason’s attack.

Jason’s eyes widened in shock.

And then the Talon used his sword—the dull part—to attack Jason and pushed him backward.

“Fuck—” Jason cursed, rolling on his back. He quickly stood up, though he was unharmed because of the dull sword, he lost his dagger. He glared at the Talon and readied his fists. No matter. He could still fight.

The Talon readied his sword. But he doesn’t look like he’ll attack.

And then an explosion.

Jason coughed out the smoke that enveloped the small corridor. He grimaced, already knowing that he’ll be greeted with an empty space.

The Talon and the Leader have escaped.

Jason had nothing to go back to after he turned his back to the pursuit. The stadium was laid wrecked around him, there were lots of huge debris scattered around the place and unconscious bodies of the members of the Court. He glared at them, the GCPD will handle them.

He turned towards the exit. Tim met him halfway.

“How’s Dad?” Jason asked.

Tim motioned towards outside. “He’s with Damian. The GCPD are on the scene. They’ll be entering any moment now.”

Jason nodded. He took off his mask and dropped it on the floor, stepping on it.

Tim grimaced. He took his off, but instead of stepping on it like Jason did, he placed it back to his sling bag.

Jason looked at him, question in his eyes.

Tim sighed, “We could still use it,” was all he said. He opened his phone, thankfully it was with his bag, and got the message that Alfred—their excuse—is already outside waiting for them. “Alfie’s here,” he said.

His brother nodded. And together they went outside, through the backdoor to walked towards a clearing. There, they met with Alfred, who didn’t waste any second before hugging them both.

“Thank Heavens you’re both alright,” the older man said, his voice as soft as the cookies he bakes, “I was so worried. After Bruce’s disappear—then Damian, I—”

Tim patted his grandfather. “You don’t have to tell us, Alfie. We understand,” he hugged the older man tighter, sympathizing with the pain that he had gone through, “And we’re sorry for not informing you sooner.” They have been too blinded by the onslaught of emergencies that they have to fight through. He had been too blinded by the reappearance of the Mercenary.

Alfred nodded. “Bruce and Damian are already with the GCPD, and they’re getting their statements,” he said, a grim look on his face. His eyes were shallow, fatigue evident from the shadows on his eyes. An equally distracted smile appeared on his lips, “I—I’m really thankful that you’re—that he’s—” he swallowed back the quiver on his voice with a cough. “I’m sorry, Master Jason, Master Tim.” Then he turned back and gently walked towards the car.

And Tim—he sympathized so much with what Alfred felt, all those words he couldn’t say. It hadn’t been long since Alfred thought that his ward—the son that he helped nourish—had gone missing, and for those horrifying days, thought that he had lost forever.

And now, just weeks after, he got to relive the feelings all over again. Who knew how much pain Alfred had gone through during those horrifying hours of not knowing where Bruce had gone, where they had gone?

He rushed after Alfred, though the older man hadn’t gone too far, and grabbed his hand. Alfred, who was too kind for his good, turned towards Tim, his eyes wet but there were no tears that have been shed.

Tim felt bile rising in his throat. “I—” he looked away, trying to control the turmoil of emotions in his head. “I’ll do better,” he whispered—fuck was that what he wanted to say? His insecurities were pushed forth in his mind, and all he could think about is how much he had failed. As a son. As a Gotham Knight.

Fuck it.

With determination in his eyes, Tim looked back at Alfred. “I’ll do better—Alfie. I swear I’ll find them,” the remaining members of the Court of Owls, the Leader who escaped, according to Jason, “I’ll find him,” the Mercenary who came back from the death. “They wouldn’t get to us. I’ll protect Dad. I’ll protect us. I’ll protect you,” his lips thinned to a straight line. “I promise.”

Alfred’s eyes shone with pride. He placed his hand over Tim’s head and brushed it gently. And with a smile, he said, “You’ve done enough, my son.”

And that—made Tim cried.

Bruce had been fretting ever since they escaped the Court of Owls. He had been checking and re-checking his youngest for injuries that even the emergency paramedics have to calm him down before he goes into a panic attack.

But he couldn’t helped it. Those lunatics have threatened to kill his son—and for what? For Bruce to ‘pay for his father’s sins?’ He wished he had found them when he was eight—he wished he had delivered to them what they wanted when he was young. Then maybe then, they would’ve stopped what they’re doing. Maybe then they wouldn’t come after his son.

His youngest. His precious Damian.

Who was pouting as he sat on the edge of the emergency van. He had his arms crossed and a bored look on his face, as if his life being threatened is something normal to him. His gaze was far out, still trailing over the building, but also going around, as if he’s looking for something else to come out from the Court’s building. “Honestly, I’m fine, Dad,” Damian said, looking as if they’re just waiting on the school grounds for his brothers.

And Damian was known for not being patient, especially when its his brothers that are at fault for the waiting, even more so if it’s Tim.

Usually, he’ll go on a long rant right now—that or he’ll find some random animal to pet. And later on adopt.

“Are you sure? Any broken bones?” A part of Bruce has been embarrassed of what happened. He should’ve taken the lead, but instead, it was Damian who found their way out.

He’s so proud of his youngest. Such a brilliant and courageous son.

Damian rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, but he looked bothered about something.

Bruce wanted to ask, but he has no idea how. He doesn’t know what Damian could be brooding about. As much as he loved his sons, there are times when he couldn’t understand what they are thinking. Such as this time, his son looked like he’s thinking stuffs that shouldn’t be what an ordinary ten-year old child would think.

What have Natalia been teaching their son?

“Dami—” he placed a hand on his youngest’s shoulder. Whenever Bruce sees that his son was troubled, everything became a background noise. Every problem became something that are easily forgotten. All he could focus on was his sons and the troubles that are plaguing them. “What are you thinking about?”

Damian sighed. He looked up at Bruce, his eyes holding a fear and worry. “It’s just that, Grays—” his eyes lightened up when he saw the figures emerging. There was joy in them, but briefly dimmed when he noticed that the figures were lacking.

Bruce turned around and saw Alfred, Jason and Tim. “Jay! Tim! Alfie!” he called out to them.

Tim rushed to Bruce’s side and gave him a brief hug. Jason followed suit. And then Bruce approached Alfred to give him a hug. Alfred’s arms tightened around him. And Bruce could feel the older man’s stiffed posture relaxing as the hug continues.

He let go after a while and turned to see Jason and Tim briefly hugging Damian as well. Damian looked fuller after meeting with his brothers. Damian turned and whispered something to Tim, which Bruce despite the distance, wasn’t able to hear. Tim eyes’ widened before looking at Jason and then to his phone. After a while, he shook his head.

Damian looked even more troubled.

Bruce approached them. “What’s wrong?” He hated that his sons have to meet them like this. Tim and Jason were still in their uniforms, their bags slung over their shoulders. Alfred must’ve just fetched them from school.

But it was already late at night, Bruce? Don’t you ever wonder why—

“It’s uh—” Jason looked away, for some reason unable to see Bruce directly. And then his eyes hardened when he saw someone approaching.

Bruce turned around, thinking that it was the police—Jason doesn’t have a good relationship with the police, he doesn’t like them, Detective Gordon of course being the exemption. To his surprise, it was Dick. He had a bit of scratches on his arms, and his uniform looked ruffled, as if he had a rough game with his friends. “Dick?”

Dick looked embarrassed. He nervously glanced at his brothers and then to Bruce. “Hey dad, hey bros,” he said, though he looked like he doesn’t really want to see them right now.

Bruce didn’t know what’s going on but suddenly Jason was in front of Dick, he pushed the older a bit hard. “Where were you?!” he all but yelled towards the other, his voice filled with anger and frustration.

Dick opened his mouth but Jason cut him off. “We called for you—Damian—he called for you.”

And Dick paled, as if Jason sucker punched him in the stomach. His eyes widened and he looked close to panicking. He looked as if he’s filled with too much regret but doesn’t want to admit it. “I—my phone was destroyed.”

“Your phone?!” Jason hissed back.

Dick raised his voice. “Yes! I got into a fight and my phone got destroyed. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there but I had my problems,” he said, using that I-am-older-so-follow-me voice that Bruce had only heard him say when he’s mediating between Tim and Damian’s scumbles and Jason was doing nothing but goading them to continue.

Jason moved closer to Dick and he looked like he’s about to punch him, Bruce intervened before it gets anymore violent. Very seldom does he witness his two older sons clash, since Dick has always been dotting and loving towards his little brothers, but once they do, once the two oldest clash—well, it’s hundred times worse than the worst fight of Tim and Damian.

“Hey—” He gently pushed Jason back, creating physical distance between Jason and Dick. He looked back at Jason’s anger and Dick’s mournful look. And he doesn’t understand. “What’s going on?”

Jason opened his mouth but closed it. He looked back at Damian and Tim, who have gone silent and then to Bruce before sighing and walking towards Damian’s side. He crossed his arms and settled on just glaring at the ground.

“Jay? Sweetheart?” Bruce asked once more, using his soft voice.

Jason merely sighed but he doesn’t speak any more.

Bruce turned towards Dick, looking for answers he wasn’t able to get from Jason. “Dick?”

Dick sighed, but at least he gave an answer, “I’m sorry, Dad. I—I got into a fight earlier, my phone got destroyed but I went here as soon as I heard what happened.”

Bruce looked worried. “You got into a fight?”

Dick looked panicking. “Uh—yeah,” his eyes kept on dodging Bruce’s gaze, he looked like he’s one minute away from just running away, “I got into a minor fight with someone and you know—I’m really sorry.”

He does sound regretful.

Bruce frowned. He doesn’t know why Dick is worrying for the broken phone, surely his eldest son knew that their wealthy father wouldn’t mind a broken phone? Yes, it was the newest model and cost a fortune but that’s nothing compared to the massive wealth that Bruce has. He patted his eldest son, “Don’t worry about. We’ll buy you a new phone.”

Dick’s smile looked forced, pained. “I—” and then his shoulder depleted, as if he had surrendered to an unknown enemy, “Yeah, thank you Dad.” He then gave Bruce a brief hug. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Bruce patted him in the back. “You as well.”

Dick’s hug tightened. He looked like he doesn’t want to let go.

Bruce looked at him, worriedly.

But Dick merely shook his head. “I love you, Dad,” he said, with eyes looking sad.

Bruce nodded and gently patted him in the shoulder, “I love you too.”

Dick then looked back at his brothers, for a moment his and Jason’s eyes met. And then he shook his head and motioned for Bruce and Alfred, “Shall we go home?”

Bruce looked at his eldest son. He’s usually not this distant with his brothers. He has expected him to fret over Damian, just as he. But he—why does he looked like he’s eager to put distance between them?

Bruce looked over at his other sons and noticed that they seemingly were unable to meet Dick’s eyes. They looked away, their bodies stiffed with an unknown pressure. There’s a heavy silence enveloping them, suffocating.

He opened his mouth, about to get to the bottom of what’s happening between his sons—

When a police officer interrupted them. “Mr. Wayne?” he asked, “May I excuse you? We needed to get your statement.”

Bruce looked over at his family and the seemingly heavy tension surrounding him. He could feel a headache forming. He sighed and followed the police.

Later. He’ll deal with his family later.

Chapter Text

He had a choice…

When he was first confronted with the Problem, he was in the Wayne Manor. He had Alfred as his only company, and his slowly building boredom. He had tried to reason out with his father that his injuries aren’t all that bad anymore—seriously, he couldn’t even feel the difference in his shoulder.

However, there’s also the fact that he couldn’t really explain to his father in plain words why he was ‘okay’ with getting stabbed in the shoulder. Unless he made up some bullshit that he had been mugged numerous times and consequently got stabbed numerous times as well.

He can’t say that. Cause that’ll be like opening Pandora’s Box and sooner or later, he’ll have to answer why he was getting mugged (though it’s obvious isn’t it? He’s the son of Bruce Wayne), why he knows how to defend himself (though he can just say that he had been taken self-defense classes—cause’ hadn’t he asked his father to attend or teach him before?), or why he never said anything (this one, he wouldn’t have any answer).

But at least, their father wouldn’t know that they are the Gotham Knights? That he wouldn’t fucked up so bad as to divulge that information—cause’ Jason will surely straggle him alive, while Tim documents the event and later labels it on his files as ‘Richard Grayson-Wayne’, that or Damian will tie him up and roast him alive while his other brothers feast on his remains.

Honestly, anything was a possibility.

But at least he found ways to entertain himself in the meantime. There’s a lot of hours in a day, so sometimes he just helps Alfred with whatever housework the older man wants to share to him (“Please Master Dick, I’ve done this a hundred times, no need to help me. Kindly seat and take a rest” and do nothing! Honestly, as if Alfred doesn’t know what they go through—nothing escapes that man’s observation. Nothing! They tried to hide it numerous times but well, Alfred just knows, plus it makes hiding their injuries from their father easier), sometimes he does go to Jason’s room or the private library that’s just an extension of Jason’s room (honestly, and he calls him spoiled when their father let him fill the private library with his collection of titles) and browse a bit of what Jason sees as entertainment (nerd), but sometimes he stays in the basement (‘their lair’ as Tim likes to call it sometimes) and do strengthening trainings (after all he’s benched in the Manor and he wasn’t able to help his brothers with the investigation before since Bruce locked him up in the hospital).

Yeah, that’s basically how he spent most of his free time.

He was back at the living room, hand on his new phone and watching some stupid but funny videos online, Alfred was in the kitchen and he could already smell the aroma of a freshly baked cookies from the living area, when he heard the doorbell ring.

Now, normally, Alfred would be the one to get the door since he takes his ‘caretaker’ role very seriously and he liked to pretend that Bruce’s overbearing narrative was true and that Dick is truly injured enough to warrant too much care as well.

“I’ll get it!” Dick yelled. He threw down his phone on the sofa, it bounced a bit before settling, then went to the door. He had his welcoming smile on his face—expecting one of his classmate or most likely Bruce’s business pals to visit—but when he opened the door, there’s no one there.

There was, however, a white envelop on the ground. It has his name etched in plain cursive font, For Richard Grayson

He frowned. Odd, his public name has the Wayne attached somewhere—usually in a dash, most often without Grayson in it—which, he doesn’t mind. Bruce is his father, society’s consanguinity rules be damned.

He picked it up and turned it over. There’s nothing malicious in it. He lifted it up on the sky, casting the sun’s lights upon it. He could see the shadow of a cardboard paper inside, no traces of anything else. His curiosity get the better of him and he opened the envelop.

Well, it was addressed to him anyway.

His blood ran cold when he saw what was inside. He pulled up the picture inside—it was a captured from a CCTV footage, going by the black-and-white picture and the high angle of the photograph, but the man—wearing a clean suit, his back was on the camera but he was looking sideway, and his face—

He was wearing a makeup. A clown makeup.

Dick doesn’t have to think twice of who he could be.

He could feel his heart stopped, the air thickens until he found it harder to breathe. The world swayed around him and his body threatened to fall on the weight of the what he had seen.

That’s impossible—Jason—killed him!

He blinked once, twice, and then turned the picture. There’s a hand-written note on the back, written as if it was in haste. But the words clutched him so hard it felt like the words were chained pulling his heart out from its cage.

He couldn’t breathe—

Prayers won’t save you from the Clown.

There is always a choice…

Richard Wayne was on his uniform, having sneaked out from the Manor while his overprotective father was getting his rest. Did he feel guilty? Of course he does, he still do. But he couldn’t help it. Someone is going after them—the Clown lives and who knows if he had already reached the Gotham harbor.

Was he being stupid by not telling his brothers about this? Of course he fucking is. And he knew that his brothers would resent him so much for keeping such a crucial information from them. Especially Tim who had been losing sleep because he was scrapping the world from any hint about who the Mercenary had been.

But the fucking Clown is alive. The Mercenary is here. Breathing. After Jason placed a bullet in his head—

What the fuck is happening?!

He was hiding at the corner of the school, where he knew that no one would be able to see him. There’s also the fact that he had cut classes so the probability of students or teachers seeming him were slim. He had his phone out and was staring so intently that his gaze could’ve combusted the electronic device.

He was waiting for something. No, someone.

And then it rang—Dick let it ring twice before answering it. The air was chill in the afternoon, but Dick could feel his body sweating with nervousness. He doesn’t speak. He let the other do the talking.

“We’ll meet you. Let your brothers chase rats.”

Richard didn’t answer back. He doesn’t have to, anyway since as soon as the other has finished delivering the message, it hang up.

He had to gather a bit of himself and let out a sigh. He could feel his heart hammering, beating faster than it should’ve been. Thousand alarm bells are ringing in his head. He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t face this unknown enemy alone. He should’ve meet—text—or contact his brothers and tell them about this enemy. He should ask for backup. Hell, he doesn’t even have to tell all of his brothers—Jason, his next younger brother would do.

He shouldn’t do this alone—

But he’s afraid.

He’s afraid that the others would say this is stupid (it is) and forbid him from taking this. It’s a stupid idea anyway, meeting another enemy to—what? Beg for help? Because the Mercenary is back from the dead? How is that any better than planning with the Knights?

They’re a team. He had told them so. Watch each other’s back—he told them in the hospital, but look at him—he’s fucking hypocrite. When the moment calls for being a team leader, he’s abandoning his brothers, the very family who helped him become who he is.

And for what? Because he’s a coward—and they shouldn’t trust him.

Fuck.

He willed back the tears that threatened to fall. No, he’s doing this for them. He’s protecting Tim from spiraling back into insanity because he’ll surely blame himself for not finding enough clues about the Mercenary to prevent the other from appearing back into their lives. He’s protecting Jason from spiraling back into his madness because he’ll surely be surrounded with too much anger and too much misery because hadn’t he already sacrificed his morality before? And now he was being forced to do it again. And he’s protecting Damian from spiraling back into the grief that threatened to push him back into the state where he was forced to grow up in.

If he has to lie to himself, then so be it.

A choice…I had a choice?

Dick perfected the act. He had successfully fooled his brothers into believing that there’s nothing wrong with what they were about to deal with.

Let them chase rats.

True to the words, shadows began to follow them. He looked at his brothers, at the alert way that they have become. Yet Dick doesn’t looked to bother—why? Because he knew. And he’s leading his brothers into a wild chase.

“I bet I’ll beat them faster than you—” he said with a fake smile and an ever faker voice. He made himself sound too sure, too smug, enough that he knew that his brothers’ pride wouldn’t let themselves be defeated. He knew that his brothers still love to challenge him, and he used that to his advantageous.

He used his knowledge of his brothers to manipulate them—he forced down the bile that formed in his throat.

As he began to ran, he turned back towards to them, “Don’t turn off your comms, okay?” because you’ll be needing that—protect each other.

He knew that none of his brothers would know what he truly mean, but at least they’ll be safe. He pulled out his phone and answered it on the first ring.

The other gave coordinates to a location.

He ran off to meet them.

I was given a choice…

He was led to an abandoned place. An old rundown two-story house at the outskirts of the town. He turned off his phone as he entered the place.

He looked around and opened his senses to anything that’ll move. It didn’t take a long while before a figure emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in an old-black attire, a golden mask of an owl on his face. He walked slowly before standing just a few feet away from Dick.

Dick swallowed back his rage. This was the same man who attacked his father at that building.

For a second, nothing happens. Just the two of them assessing each other.

But then the other held out his hand. “Give them.” He doesn’t have to specify what he was asking, but Dick loved to be a bother when he could.

“My shirt?” he gave a flirtatious smile.

“Your phone,” the owl man said.

Dick sighed and pulled out his phone. The owl man grabbed it and before Dick could so much as open his mouth to protest, the enemy had dropped the phone on the ground, stomping at it until it broke into tiny pieces.

“Hey! That’s expensive!” Dick said, pretending as if he cares about his phone.

The enemy then held out his hand once again. Dick stared at him, a bile rising from his gut to his throat. No they couldn’t possibly—but his fear materialized as the Owl man said, “Give it.”

Dick could feel himself sweating. His nerve aching, his feet itching to turn back and run away. This man knew, how could they—no one is supposed to know. Gods, how far—how much do they know about them? His brothers are in danger—he put them in danger.

He pulled out his batons, the two hardened metal and prepared himself to fight. He’ll figure a way out and then he’ll warn them. Gods, he’s been so stupid, he shouldn’t have gone alone. He should’ve warned his brothers. They’re not just facing a fucking stupid thugs—these are dangerous people.

The Owl man shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. Grayson,” he spoke Dick’s name as if he personally knew him, Dick shivered at the implication of that.

He shook his head and hardened his stance.

“Then so be it.”

The enemy didn’t even let him breathe. He ran forward and pulled out his long sword that was strapped on his back. He swung the weapon to Dick, with full intent of decapitating him. Luckily, Dick had his metal baton enhanced, through Tim’s intellectual supervision because God knows his brother knew too much for his little head, and could withstand even a sword. He used his left baton to block it while using the other to attack.

The enemy pulled back and pulled out his feather-dagger and attacked him with it hoping to distract him. But despite the lack of his active gear, Dick had enough skills, plus his enhanced acrobatic moves, and easily dodged the attack. He prepared himself for the other’s attack and sooner than later they found themselves exchanging blows. The Owl man would aggressively attack him while Dick would dodge each attack, and then offensively attacking whenever opportunity would open itself.

But for some reason, the enemy was able to read him well. Because Dick couldn’t land a single hit on the other. No matter how much he tried, the enemy seemed to be familiar with his style, as if he had been his sparring partner.

It was unnerving and the distraction cost him a kick in his stomach.

He rolled to avoid much damage and immediately stood up, defending himself once more.

But the enemy has more surprises down his sleeve. He pulled out a button and pressed it.

The ground opened up beneath them and Dick found himself falling—

If you were given a choice, would you have stayed?

Dick groaned as he slowly stood up. He could feel every inch of his body aching after the fall. But surprisingly he doesn’t feel any broken bones. Perhaps the fall happened been too deep, perhaps he had been fortunate enough—a kick connected with his back and he wants again fell down on the ground. He rolled over to face his attacker but a body descended upon him.

A long sword embedded itself just centimeters away from his face, hitting his cheeks and giving him a scratch. Dick gritted his teeth and glared at the face of the Owl in front of him.

“Yield and surrender to your fate,” the Owl said, his voice echoing on the enclosed room they found themselves in. Around them were white, surrounded by golden-plated frames that features people with owl masks, with formal clothing, posing as if they’re taking a family picture. Dick used his hands to attack and free himself but the Owl merely brushed them off and pushed down his arms. “Yield and surrender to your fate,” the enemy repeated.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about—” Dick said, glaring at the enemy. He used his feet to exert energy and propelled himself upwards, successfully pushing the enemy away from his person. He pulled up the sword and used it to attack the other. The Owl man pulled out another identical sword from his back and used it to block Dick’s more aggressive side.

Dick could see the Court of Owls surrounding him—from the owl figurines that he intentionally breaks, to the frames with their members’ photographs. He hated this place, everything was mocking him. He should end this fight immediately. He should go back to his brothers—find them and save them from these delusional madmen.

He should’ve seen this coming. He had known about the Court of Owls. The myth of it. A bedtime story that his father—his biological father used to tell him when their family was travelling with the Haly’s circus. He had been curious then, but easily dismissed the idea that a bunch of wealthy lunatics could own a city.

They stood behind every wall, in every shadow. They whispered and Gotham shuddered. Not a leaf falls without their permission.

The Court of Owls is a myth—a story that Gothamites tell their kids at night. Just as his parents do before they put Dick to rest.

It’s not…it’s not real.

Dick roared in anger as he attacked the Owl man once more. He shouldn’t have been too dismissive. The memory itched at the back of his head, a careful whisper on his ears, but he didn’t listen. Is it because he doesn’t want to turn his head again and remember his past? Or was it because he doesn’t want to sound delusion if he ever suggested it to his brothers? When had he become this conscious towards them—

The enemy attacked and the sword almost collided with Dick’s arms. But luckily, Dick had more training and more practice dodging up Damian’s homicidal attacks during practice. He sidestepped just in time and turned around to use his momentum to deliver a strong kick to the enemy. Predictably, the Owl man tried to block it but Dick used the distraction to swing his sword—it hit the enemy, injuring him enough that he let go of the sword. Dick kicked it out and pushed the enemy until he went down and he sat above him.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, anger behind his shout. What do you want with my father?!

He could feel the Owl man smiling behind his mask. “In pre-modern times, potential gladiators were sometimes escorted to the coliseums by parades of performers, jesters and acrobats—” Dick’s eyes widened, his mouth forming into a straight line. He doesn’t know what the hell the enemy was talking about giving him a random fact about history but then—

“An ancient version of the circus.”

“What—” Dick’s heart seemingly stopped at the mention of that word.

The Owl man didn’t stop, it was like he was on auto-pilot, the information slipping past his lips like a recorded documentary. “Every decade, Haly’s circus presented a crop of child athletes to the Court of Owls. And the members chose one in secret to be trained as the era’s talon,” the enemy’s eyes bore right into Dick, poking a hole right through his soul, “You were meant to be the most recent one. The Court has arranged your arrival. But the Waynes took you in.”

And suddenly he was thrown back—at that time he had ran from the Manor. Those two weeks he disappeared from the second life that Bruce has gifted to him. He ran away to chase after the murderer of his parents. He knew his name, he saw him during that performance in the circus, gods he had been part of the Circus, his parents trusted him—and he wanted the man to pay.

He cornered him, at an alleyway in the Narrows. The man was shivering, as if he had too much drugs in his system. He looked at the young Richard, shaking as if he was facing the devil itself. He begged, like a man on the edge of his life. He begged for forgiveness. He begged for salvation.

All the while the young Richard stared at him. Confusion, anger, regret mixing into his cold, dead eyes. He doesn’t know what to think. What emotion to feel. Here he was, facing the cause of his tragedy. And yet he was drained of anger, of vengeance that had fueled him to leave the comfort of the Manor.

The criminal continued to beg. He was seeing things that only his eyes could see. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he said in between sobs. He looked so dirty. His eyes were trimmed with red, unseeing gaze, his saliva was mixing with his snot but he doesn’t care. For all he was, is a sinner in front of his retribution.

“I’m sorry—it’s not by choice. It was never my choice.”

“Shut up!” Dick screamed, though he doesn’t know if he’s screaming at the enemy laid down before him or at the memory resurfacing in his head.

It was never my choice—

Not my choice—

My—

Choice—

“The city has spiraled into chaos. It has become a cease pool. A magnet for freaks—” a movement at his right and Dick saw as the pictures in the frames morphed into the pictures of the criminals of Gotham city: Slade, the Penguin, Black Mask, Bane— “lunatics—” the pictures morphed into the imagery of the Mercenary and his merry gangs of criminals wearing his symbol, a clown mask, “and delusional vigilantes—”

Dick’s blood ran cold as he stared at the imagery of his brothers—Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin—filling up the rest of the frames. And at the center of it, just above where the enemy laid, was the image of him.

Nightwing.

Dick’s hold on the enemy loosen as he tried to control his life that’s spiraling out of his hands. They—

The enemy motioned for his hand and the frames morphed again, this time they are filled with the same CCTV footage that was given to Dick in the Manor, the picture of the Mercenary. But this time, the Mercenary stood in the Gotham’s harbor, he was leading his men inside the shipment. He looked up at the camera and smirked.

That smirked remained, boring right into Dick.

“Prayers won’t save you from the Clown,” the enemy said.

And Dick—he doesn’t have anything to say against it. He had tried, hadn’t he? He and his brothers have tried their hardest to protect their father from the enemies of Gotham. Tim had suffered every night scouring the city, the world, for any information about the Mercenary. Damian had suffered at the hands of the Mercenary as he had used his past and delivered him—and their father—right through Slade’s hands. And Jason suffered as he was forced to abandon the very fabric of morality that they cling to, just so he could satisfy his need to know that no harm shall befall their family again.

“If he knew—he’ll never forgive me,” Jason’s broken voice filled his ears. Gods, Jason had never stopped blaming himself for that night. It took a while for Dick to coax his brother out from that madness he was about to fall into.

And now—the Mercenary is back from the dead and he’s threatening to take everything away again. He could smell the blood in his nose, he could almost hear Alfred’s broken cries on his ears.

The Owl man took the opportunity to let go of Dick’s capture. He sat as Dick kneeled in front of him. “You can protect your father,” he said in a soft voice, like a siren’s voice luring its prey. A thousand promises on its sweet tone. “The Court can offer protection.”

Dick’s wide eyes turned towards to him. He opened his mouth but no words came out.

Hadn’t he failed once? Hadn’t he failed to keep his family together when Bruce died? He had failed as Nightwing to keep the Gotham safe for his family. He had failed as Richard Grayson-Wayne to keep his family together after their father’s apparent ‘death’, had failed to keep his brothers from committing acts that they regret.

But now…

The enemy opened up his hand, showing him a small circle with an owl etched in it. “Become a Talon, and help the Court take back Gotham.”

Dick’s eyes lingered over at the mark of the Talon. All he wanted was to protect his family, to keep their father safe from all the dirt that the city has to offer, to keep his brothers from making mistakes that costs them their life. He just wanted to protect the city, his family, his father, his brothers. When will he be enough?

He had failed as Nightwing, a member of the Gotham Knights.

He had failed as Richard, the eldest son of Bruce Wayne.

He wondered…

Would he fail as a Talon too?

He grabbed the mark and held it close to his heart. He closed his eyes.

It was not by choice.

It was not my choice.

“The Gray Son has come home.”

End of Part I

Chapter Text

Part II

He glanced down at the bubbling chemicals, to the way that it swirled around the limited space it occupies. The little cripples felt hypnotic. And the pungent smell of the mixing liquids felt oddly comforting to him. 

His gaze then began to wander around the area. It was dark, like the warehouse was already abandoned. The whole place was only lit by some two or three lightbulbs, barely enough to cover the vast space of the warehouse. 

He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one is supposed to be here at this time. 

He had already ignored the glaring warning sign at the door of the warehouse and picked the lock as if he wasn’t already being chased by the law. What’s one more mistake on top of so many? He had already fucked up his life. He’s already at the deepest bottom a human could possibly be. 

Just as the swirling chemical below him, he was merely waiting for disposal. 

By whose hands—that’s up to decide yet. 

And isn’t that just pathetic? 

Here he was, waiting for the inevitable to happen, waiting for tragedy to jump through the window and subdue him completely, praying that the end be quick. 

But hadn’t he been such a promising young boy growing up? He had been considered as lucky by his peers—born into a wealthy family, with generational wealth attached to his name. He had been having tea with the Elites, been exchanging handshakes with their family’s business partners, hell, he had his own car before he could even legally get a driver’s license. He was spoiled beyond imagination. Even though his parents had never been as hands-on with him growing up, he was given all that he needed, all that he wanted. 

Money had never been an issue. 

Money shouldn’t have been an issue. 

Yet just because of a minor, insignificant detail¸ all had been taken. Just because of some whispers of people’s stupid jealousy—oh they are so jealous of what his family had!—business deals were pulled out and suddenly they don’t have the right to operate anymore. Just because of a simple mistake in the financial statement, suddenly they don’t have the right to stand on the same footing as those of the Elites. 

Doors were closed on their faces. Mutual Understanding Agreements were rescinded. And property rights were cancelled.

His parents tried to fight it off, begging all those that will listen. 

But no one listened. 

Not even the so-called Benevolent Family of Gotham, with the fucking prince heading the Board. They had pleaded the case to him personally, promising to do good with the company, basically offering 80% of the profits back to Wayne Enterprises for at least a good number of years—all just so they wouldn’t lose the rights to manage the factory. 

Yet he turned them down. Said no to everything. 

He is such a fucking hypocrite, isn’t he? He talks as if he doesn’t care about money, as if accumulation of wealth isn’t a goal of his or of his company, as if all the riches he has is simply something to use for the better good—to build a better city! 

A laugh burst out from him. 

An uncontrollable laugh. 

What a fucking piece of shit! What a fucking shit show! That prince is just as greedy and vile as the rest of us—else why else would he look so deeply into our bank accounts just because we want to have a little something for ourselves? Why else would he investigate our statements and private dealings if not to take the money for himself? 

He doesn’t want anyone else taking a slice of the fucking pie. He wants the whole pie for himself and his alone. 

Another laugh. And suddenly, he’s doubling over at the edge of the railing. The smoke from the chemical mixture reached him. 

But he doesn’t feel afraid. 

He got what he deserved. He deserved to be taken away from his family and suffer the consequences of his greed. He deserved to be tortured and beaten the hypocrisy out of him. Maybe then he’ll learn to be less greedy. Maybe then he’ll learn to share. 

A smile appeared on his face. 

Pity he didn’t have the time to finish his plans. But it doesn’t matter, does it? 

He pulled himself up with the metal railing. It shook a bit under his weight, the rust underneath from years of unkempt regulation grinding from the added weight. As he stood up over the chemical bubbling below, a plan formed in his head. 

As his gaze lingered on the swirling liquid, transfixed once again by the lure of the abyss, he began to imagine what could've been. 

A world without masks. A world without pretenders. A world without greed.

A world that is free.

His laughter echoed around the warehouse. For a while, the city bore witness to the insanity that is about to come. 

Chapter Text

A loud clatter of noise drowned the city of Gotham one late afternoon. 

There was a major traffic jam that seemingly started out of nowhere in the middle of the busiest street in the City. One car had lost control, suddenly swerved right, hitting the opposite lane and swirling until it landed just another block away. Unfortunately, due to the commotion, it also accidentally hit another truck, which hit another, and the problem just grew exponentially. 

Every driver that got hit immediately went out of their cars and began shouting at each other, blaming everything and everyone under the sun. It was the busiest time of the day, where people were travelling to go home from their work, so everyone was rightfully pissed and beyond frustrated – which only further expanded the problem. 

Injured individuals also were left sitting at the roadside, calling for police and waiting for the ambulance. Others, who were passing by, also began to get involve–desperately trying to play mediator and resolve the issue without the whole place descending into chaos. 

But then–someone threw the first punch.

And what little peace descended into chaos. What started out as a single punch transformed into a brawl as the people involved started to pour their restrained anger into punches, hitting anyone and everyone that’s within their range. The yelling grew louder as people tried to either move away from the brawl, or help someone in the brawl.

Suddenly, the sound of sirens filled the city. 

Some people began to scatter, especially those who knew what would happen next. Those who have been privy to a nasty past with the GCPD. They abandoned whatever fight they had with the others and began to run away; while others were seemingly lost in the brawl, continuing to fight until they had the upper hand. 

The police were quick to disperse through the crowd–breaking up every and any fight they could get their hands on. They started to break up the fights and assist those on the sidelines that were injured from the accident. 

Commissioner Gordon stepped out from his police car with a megaphone in his hand. With a deep breath, he addressed the chaos, “Alright! Everybody listen up! Everyone who is injured shall be assisted to the hospital. Anyone who was involved in the accident that wasn't injured will be assisted in the police station. Everyone that’s involved in the brawl–and keeps on fighting–will be arrested!” 

The police moved in synchrony after the impromptu speech and began following the orders. Authorities were arresting people that they could get their hands on. And emergency personnel started loading people into the waiting ambulance, and treating minor injuries with a first aid kit. 

The brawl didn’t stop. People were panicking and calling the whole thing injustice. “Why do we have to get arrested? We hadn’t done anything wrong!” one of them called out, resisting arrest. The others too, saying that the whole thing was unfair and they were as much of a victim as those that were involved in the accident. 

Commissioner Gordon spoke on, “Just until we settle this in the station. No need to panic. If you truly haven’t done anything wrong, we won’t keep you long,” he stated to the megaphone, addressing the concerned citizens. 

They didn’t look wholly convinced and Gordon feared the worst. He looked around and noticed that the crowd didn’t seem to lessen, and people shouting kept increasing the chaos. Pretty soon, what little peace and order the GCPD’s presence had given would vanish. 

His fears came true when a random person suddenly yelled, “I can’t go to jail–” and suddenly Gordon saw the person ducked close to the policeman arresting him and grappled with the gun. Gordon pulled out his gun and pointed it at the person, “Stop! Stop or we’ll shoot!” but through the commission, the person wasn’t able to hear him. 

“I said stop–”

Bang! 

The person was accidentally shot by the police who was grappling with the gun. Suddenly, it felt like the whole city had gone quiet, everyone’s eyes transfixed on the scene. A police officer had just shot a citizen. 

Chaos erupted once more. 

Those who had been resisting arrest turned towards the police and began grumpling with them too. The police stepped back. Fortunately, some carried tasers and they began tasering people who were reaching for their guns. They started brawling once more. And the screaming got louder. 

And louder. 

And louder. 

Until a smoke bomb was thrown right at the center of the chaos. 

Gordon coughed as he tried to swat back the smoke, trying to take the chaos back into control. “What the–”

And then a very bright boom light flashed at the dead center, illuminating the first victim of the accidental shooting–laying on his own blood at the center of the road. And beside him–stood a man with a dark green coat over a bright purple shirt. His face was plastered with white powder, and black spots over his eyes, and a bright red stain over his lips. 

A cruel smile on his face. 

Gordon’s eyes widened. He gasped in disbelief, “No!” he screamed, with all the frustration and anguish that the sight brought to him. This can’t be. He had been there back at the Harbor. He knew what he saw. He knew what he had to bury in an unmarked grave. “You’re dead!” 

The Mercenary laughed, loud enough that it silenced the chaos. 

Everyone’s eyes were transfixed on them, waiting with bated breath on what malicious entity shall be unleashed soon. 

The Mercenary twirled around, basking on the attention he was receiving, “Citizens of Gotham!” he addressed the city, his voice echoing despite the open space, “We have been played like fools!” He began, bellowing the city like a savior that rose out from the pits of his lose, “They are those among us who wear a facade of godliness, pretending to be the beacon of truth and justice–” he pointed at the police officers, then to the city building tops, eyes searching for someone or something to appear, “—when they are just as vile and as cruel as the criminals they claim to defeat.”

He paused, seemingly letting his words settle to his listener’s ears. 

But then, Gordon stepped out, “The only fool here is you. Pretending to be a dead man for your own amusement!” he gritted his teeth, pointing his gun straight at this fucking pretender. How dare he? How dare he spark fear into this city by wearing the face of a dead man! 

Because that fucker is dead, Gordon thought to himself, letting his righteous anger fuel his desire to just put a bullet in this crazy, just as he wished he could have done on the real Mercenary. 

But the clown merely laughed at his threat, unfazed by the fact that every police in the area had followed Gordon’s initiative and pointed their guns at him. He faced his impending end with a smile. 

And a cruel laugh. “HA! HA! HA! Oh, dear me, I am not the pretender here, Commissioner,” he said, his voice dripping with unrestrained manic anger, “You’re just as blind as the rest of this City,” he added, shaking his head as if he was a teacher disappointed that his perfect student couldn’t get the correct answer.

He then turned his back again to Gordon and addressed the others, “But don’t worry your pretty little heads, my dear citizens, for I shall bright forth the real truth!” He spoke, like a fake priest preaching onto the gullible visitors. 

He quickly turned to Gordon and took a step, hoping to make the other flinch.

But Gordon didn’t become Commissioner by being a coward. He stood firm, even when the clown was a breath away from him. He merely removed the safety on his gun. 

The clown gave a manic smile. He leaned towards his ears, pretending to offer him a secret, “I have heard from the grapevine that there’s…say…some bombs around the city.”

Several people gasped upon hearing it. 

The clown turned back once more and stepped forward, opening his arms as if offering a big hug to the citizens, “A small sacrifice for the greater good I assure you!” he said, his grin becoming more unhinged with every word, like a theater lead that lost the line between act and real life, “All I need–is the truth.”

Gordon glared at him. “You’re lying.” Just as he was calling himself the Mercenary. 

But the criminal merely grinned. He cocked his head at the side, contemplating, “You wanna bet on it?” 

And the City shook as a bomb exploded. 

Several eyes turned towards the source of the explosion, including Gordon, and watched in horror as a huge smoke erupted from the explosion, clouding the once clear sky in grey. 

Gordon moved quickly and turned around, but the ‘Mercenary’ was already gone. He gritted his teeth and motioned for some of the police to come with him. He instructed them to settle the issue at this incident while taking some with him towards the source of the explosion. 

He dreaded what this means for the city’s future. Hopefully that clown was just some lunatic with an illusion of grandeur. He prayed that this was just a coincidence and not the start of something grim. 

Somewhere in Gotham…

“I will ask again, Mr. Wayne,” the Leader said, his cruel eyes dancing in glee as he took in the pathetic state of the head of Wayne Enterprises. “Will you pay for your father’s sins?”

Bruce bowed down. He clenched his fists in anger but he couldn’t do anything. The answer was already on his lips.

“No!!” Damian yelled from where he was trapped in the cage. He hated this—hated how he couldn’t fight these cowards who were threatening his father. The Court of Owls? More like a bunch of cowards in masks! He was about to kick the metal cage, damn the consequences—

When the whole place exploded.  

Chapter Text

Gotham City is on heightened alert. The GCPD continues its quest on finding the other bombs that the Mercenary threatened the city with. They don’t have any clues. The recent bombing seemed like a disconnected issue; even Gordon himself struggled to make any sort of connection as to what led to the destruction of an otherwise perfectly empty building out of the city outskirts. 

“Here, look,” Detective Harvey, who had been promoted to Inspector, showed the Commissioner his recent finding. He placed a sculptured dagger on the table. “It took a while for the boys to dig this up. Same shit we found in Wayne’s building,” Harvey commented, talking about the same dagger they found when they scoured the Wayne Enterprise after the attack on the CEO. 

Gordon had personally seen to it that the case was resolved, having some sort of familial attachment to Bruce. But, aside from the mystery of the dagger–they didn’t find much. Well, Gordon didn’t want to believe that they found something. Through his research, he was able to pierce that the intricate design of the dagger may have been connected to an old Gotham myth.

A story. 

“I’m telling you, it might be real,” Harvey said, shrugging his shoulders. 

Gordon shook his head. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“Does it?” Harvey scoffed. He’s the person that’s more inclined to listen to such tales, to believe that the Court of Owls truly exist. “Jim–this can’t be a coincidence.”

“This could probably be some sort of relic, a collectible!” Gordon all but screamed. He looked around, somehow a bit ashamed that he was too quick to lose his temper. 

He shook his head. Again, he was plagued by the image of a young Bruce after they found him in an abandoned building. He too had believed that the Court existed. Wanted to. And look where that got him? Almost dying of starvation looking for proof of a myth. 

Gordon turned his back to his friend and looked outside. There’s police scouting the area, searching every street, hoping to find any clues that may help them. “And if it is,” he said, sighing in defeat, “what good does it lead us? The copycat–”

“You mean the Mercenary?” Harvey was too keen to interject. 

Gordon rounded back at him. “The Mercenary is dead.” He repeated. Again and again. “You’re there when we’ve seen the body. He’s dead. Dead.” He’s so tired of everything! His body was beyond exhausted pulling double shifts as the police tried fruitlessly to scour for the mere possibility that there were hidden bombs somewhere. The city was restless. Everyone was on edge with fear that something would just set off a bomb. 

And Harvey’s here testing what little patient he had left. He glared at him. “He’s a copycat,” he repeated, massaging the blooming headache brought by his outburst. 

Harvey’s face was grimed. “But what if he isn’t?”

That made Gordon pause. Harvey would never be cruel. He wouldn’t intentionally make Gordon’s head question reality just because it’s fun. So Gordon looked up, a question in his eyes.

“What…do you mean?”

Harvey swallowed. “What if–” he took a deep breath, as if letting go of the next words would take a toll out of his life, “-what if the one–back in the harbor–what if that wasn’t him?” He frowned. “What if this is…him?”

Gordon couldn’t reply to anything after that. 

The Waynes were sitting together in the living room, watching the nightly news. They just had their dinner and now they’re bundled together in the room. 

Bruce wouldn’t lie and say he hadn’t missed this. Before the fiasco with the Court of Owls, his boys had been busy, often missing their family time (twice they skipped their weekend activities), and excusing themselves. Bruce wasn’t too happy with it, but he also understood that it’s something that his boys would eventually do. He had been a teenager before too, and he remembered that he had times when he wanted to get away from Alfred, even though he loved his pseudo-father so much. 

But after the recent incident with Court, his boys had been…well, clingy might be a good word to call it. They’re more insistent on staying around the Manor and accompanying Bruce whenever he goes. 

Now, with the city on heightened alert, the family decided to stay in the Manor. Bruce had also ordered his company to implement a work-at-home setup for, as much as possible, all his employees, so long as the police had cleared the city. 

The news was suddenly caught off to turn towards an important city announcement. The Mayor of Gotham appeared on the screen. He was surrounded by his security, while reporters swarmed him with questions. He motioned for them to calm, and started addressing the people. 

“The city is safe,” the Mayor’s voice echoed through the screen. “GCPD had assured us that the recent bombing was an isolated case, and they’ve apprehended the perpetrator,” the Mayor continued, motioning towards Commissioner Gordon who nodded.

“That’s good to hear,” Bruce said, feeling happy and proud of the police. Although there hadn’t been much news about the Court, let alone an acknowledgment that it exists from the news, he was glad that the GCPD had managed to apprehend them. Maybe they’re choosing to keep this incident a secret? Or at least, make it less public. 

After all, how can you explain that a recent ‘myth’ has become real? Hell, even after through the whole ordeal, Bruce himself isn’t too keen on believing that the Court was real. What if they’re just pretenders trying to revive a myth? 

Bruce swallowed. 

But how could that excuse Lincoln? How could that excuse Damian’s near death experience?

At the corner of his eyes, he saw his eldest averted looking at the screen. 

It was then that Dick caught Bruce’s eyes. 

There was something that flashed across it. Too quick for Bruce to truly read and understand. 

Seemingly knowing, Dick averted his gaze once more. He stood up and walked towards the kitchen. 

Bruce frowned, eyes searching Dick’s retreating form. 

And then, the Mayor’s voice cut through the screen once more. Bruce hadn’t noticed that he had tuned out the news because of his musing. He turned back towards the television, this time, watching intently to what the Mayor was speaking once more. “The clown is nothing. He’s bluffing,” the Mayor continued, now looking smug. He glared at the camera, smiling like a winner that’s staring at the cup, “He’s just a copycat with a delusion of grandeur.” Afterwards, the Mayor answered more of the reporters’ questions about what happened in the recent incident on the highway and if there’s a connection between that and the bombing. To which the Mayor answered in the negative, and stated that these things were ‘isolated’ from each other. 

“It’s a big city!” The Mayor said, looking flabbergasted, as if the questions were asked by children, “lots of things happen in the city. Not all crimes are just one big conspiracy, aren’t they? Accidents happen.”

And then the footage was cut off and the news program came back once more. And like the usual, they began reporting on other ‘incidents’ in the city. 

Bruce frowned. The Mayor’s words echoed in his head. Yes, Gotham is a big city. But lately, it felt like the amount of crime is still so disproportionate with how big the city is. It’s like every day there’s a major crime that happened, like every street is littered with some deranged criminal, and now there’s a lunatic that’s emulating some other criminal as well. Will there ever be peace in Gotham? Is there any hope that this City will be safe? 

Will his family continue to be safe in this city? Or would it be safer for them to just transfer to another city? To hell with his father’s legacy. For Bruce, his boys were more important than some legacy. If Bruce was given a choice, there’s not even a competition. Bruce’s regard for his family trumps anything else. 

He looked over at his boys…and wondered.

“I don’t know how anyone can be inspired by the Mercenary enough to emulate him,” Jason suddenly spoke up. He was munching over some leftover cookies, glaring at the remaining piece as if they personally offended him. He continued eating though. “He’s not the best of men.”

Damian nodded. “Agreed. Surely only an imbecile could look up to another imbecile,” he said, smirking at Jason.

The insult seemingly lifted Jason’s spirit because he smiled back.

Bruce sighed from where he sat. His fatherly instinct told him to reprimand his sons for being mean to a guy who, like many others before him, was just facing some undiagnosed mental health issues—because just as his son said, how can anyone be inspired by a maniac who's involved in human trafficking? No sane individual would look up to someone as vile as the Mercenary. 

Plus—

He shuddered, as if someone poured a bowl of ice on his back. 

Dick had returned from the kitchen and took his seat—which is quite a distance from Jason. 

Bruce frowned. Dick had never shied away from seating beside Jason. As soon as Dick sat down and rattled the sofa a bit with his weight, Jason’s mood vanished like a sniffed candlelight. His good mood soured and he gave Dick a quick glare before turning back to his cookie. 

There was a strange buzz in the air between his two eldest sons ever since Damian’s (and his) rescue from the Court. At first, he thought that the strange feelings emanating from the two oldest were just a consequence from the traumatic event that they went through. He thought that they were just equally worried and rattled by Bruce and Damian’s disappearance and subsequent rescue from the Court. 

But as the days passed by, and nothing changed…Bruce wondered if it was because of something more. Something that he hadn’t been privy to. 

Had something happened between Dick and Jason that he wasn’t aware of? But what is it that was so…damning…enough to make them like this? Jason kept on throwing his older brother angry and irritated looks, while Dick tried to appear nonchalant. They looked like they’re always on the verge of—fighting? screaming? Like boiling water that’s threatening to burst. 

Bruce doesn’t know how to address the issue, even though he wanted to. He doesn’t understand where Jason’s anger is coming from. He briefly remembered Jason confronting Dick harshly when he appeared late during their rescue. But Jason wouldn’t be so cruel as to fault Dick for that. Even if Dick appeared with them, even if he rode with Alfred and Tim towards the place after Damian’s mysterious rescue—what would the eldest son do? Yes, he knows self-defense, Bruce wouldn’t deny that, but what could he do against men clothed in armory, using sharp daggers as weapons—one even had a gun! What could the eldest do against them? 

Bruce frowned. Did Jason expect Dick to do something? Did he expect Dick to rescue the youngest? 

But how could Dick? Bruce looked at his eldest, whose eyes were trained over the television. From his stiff posture, Bruce knew that the eldest was merely trying to appear like he’s engrossed with the news program and the commercial that’s flashing. But Bruce knew his son well enough to know better. 

He coughed to get Dick’s attention. “Were you able to report the people who took your phone?” There, maybe the little reminder would sooth Jason’s anger? Maybe his son had forgotten that Dick had been robbed before the incident in the Court. He shouldn’t fault Dick for that. His boy just wasn't able to defend himself against the criminals quickly. It’s not his fault that he wasn’t there.

But the question seemed to make things worse. Dick flinched as if Bruce had gone and personally struck him across the face. 

Bruce frowned at the odd reaction. 

At the corner of his eyes, he saw Jason glared at Dick once more. 

“Uh, I haven’t—yet,” Dick replied, again looking anywhere else but Bruce’s eyes. 

Bruce frowned. He had never been more sure that his eldest was hiding something. “Richard,” he began—

Damian gasped at the name. 

Tim silently yelped. 

Bruce rarely uses the eldest’s full legal name. And usually, it’s always been done to make a point. “You need to report these things to the police.” Bruce doesn’t want his son to play hero. He doesn’t let him learn self-defense so he could pursue some insane idea of playing vigilante and going after the criminals who took his phone. And it’s not the phone that’s the issue, anyway. They knew he wouldn’t be upset over that; money was never an issue for a Wayne. He just hated the fact that Dick isn’t doing something to secure his safety. What if those criminals come back? What then? What if Dick wouldn’t have the same luck to escape them? 

These criminals need to be in jail. GCPD is well-equipped to handle them. 

Dick’s hands started fidgeting and panicky pointing at the screen—where the news was repeating the CCTV footage of the recent highway collision. “They’re just—so busy, you know? It’s just a petty crime. Nothing as serious as—uh, that!” he said, eyes pleading for Bruce to understand what seemed to be a valid point in his head. 

Bruce frowned. He’s really not happy that Dick is making a point that the possible danger to his life is more than the city’s. He doesn’t want to debate his son about the morality issue of ‘the greater good’ and all that. His son’s life is just as important as everyone else’s in the city. Dick shouldn’t be so dismissive with his life. And he’s not forcing the police to go after the thieves who took his phone, he’s just letting the police know that a crime happened. 

He opened his mouth, words ready to explain and start one of his lectures, when he got cut off by a dismissive scoff from Jason. 

Jason, who had his arms crossed, and glaring daggers at his brother, “Or maybe it was because your ‘petty crime’ is just one shitty lie.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Jason!” 

Jason immediately turned to Bruce, somehow shocked that Bruce would be so quick to call him out. “What?! I’m only saying—”

“What Jay?” Dick’s interrupted, glaring with the same ferocity as his brother. His voice was laced with an unusual amount of sarcasm, “Do tell us how you can be so sure that I am not attacked that night?” He crossed his arms, sitting straight up in a loud challenge. 

Jason, as usual, rose to the bait. He growled. “Oh fuck you—”

That triggered Bruce. He quickly stood up. “That’s it!” He’s never to raise his voice against his boys but even he has his limit. Hands on his hips, he glared at his two eldest sons, “I thought you both are mature enough to settle—” he motioned at them, “—whatever this is going between the two of you but apparently not!” He huffed. 

Dick and Jason looked away, equally ashamed of being scolded. 

Bruce looked at them for a moment before sighing. He walked away from the sofa and motioned at the two, “You both—”

Dick and Jason flinched. 

“—you’re coming with me.” And then he addressed the two youngest, who was staring with wide eyes, glancing between Bruce and the older brothers, “You can have your dinner early.” Bruce’s voice instantly shifted to something softer, eyes also reflecting how sorry he was that the younger boys had to witness this from their brothers, “Don’t wait for us.” Eyes hardening once more, he motioned for the two older to follow. 

He’s settling whatever this is happening between his boys. Damian and Tim shouldn’t see their older brother fight like this! Yeah, brothers fight. But they make up too. And Bruce wouldn’t let his eldest sons leave the room until they made up and settled what issue they had with each other. 

He’ll get to the bottom of this! He won’t let the incident tore his family apart like this.

With flaming determination, Bruce walked towards the library at the other end of the Manor. His two sons followed behind him. 

Chapter Text

Bruce led his two eldest sons towards their private library. It had been one of his favorite rooms in the Manor. It faced directly the vast garden that the Manor had at its back, filling the room with a certain sense of serenity. He always loved to work in this room instead of the office, and oftentimes, he’d have Jason as a company. Jason would silently read with him on the side sofa that Bruce, when he was a teenager, always sat too. 

It gave him a sense of fondness, staring at it. 

He sighed. This’ll be a hard talk. 

He sat at his usual table and motioned for his two sons to sit on the sofa on the opposite side. 

Jason and Dick silently followed his instructions and sat. A glaring distance between them. 

Bruce eyed that distance with sadness. Hurt. Confusion. 

The silence was thick and heavy in the room. The once serenity that filled him when he entered the room was drastically morphed into something ugly. He glanced at the two of his sons and wondered, what had changed? 

What had torn them apart so much that they felt like ticking bombs ready to explode anytime they so much as breath the same air? Bruce doesn’t understand. But he desperately wants to. 

Dick, ever the eldest, was the one who spoke first. He had always hated silence. “Dad–” he blurted like he had been itching to talk ever since Bruce’s small burst of anger earlier had forced his eldest to silence, “–I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, but he didn’t dare to interrupt. He knew that his son had more to say, and going by Jason’s silence, he was right. 

“It’s just—everything’s messed up right now with the news and everything,” he swallowed, eyes wide with a silent plea for his father to listen, “—it’s getting to me, that’s all,” he gave a tight smile, as if also convincing himself of his own words. He tried to reach for Jason’s shoulder—but the distance between them prevented him to do so. 

He quickly retracted his hand, instead moving it as if he hadn’t meant to reach for his brother, but had just been distracted. “Me and my brother, we’ll make up. It’s okay,” he gave one of his soft grins, a bit more genuine now, “you don’t have to worry.”

Bruce frowned. He didn’t miss the side step that Dick did. The distance between the brothers is even more glaring now.

However, he remained silent, the frown never leaving his face. He eyed Jason. 

And was surprised to see him glaring at Dick. But when he felt Bruce’s eyes on him, he quickly diverted his gaze to the other side, turning away and his anger disappearing with it. “I—uh—” He couldn’t look directly at his father, “What he said. Uh—” he swallowed, “—same.”

Bruce took a heavy sigh. He hadn’t been placed in this same position ever since Damian came to the Manor. Jason and Dick had always been incredibly close—suprising everyone including Bruce. He had thought that there’ll at least be a bit of a drift or a misunderstanding between the two brothers when Jason was first adopted into their small family—but surprisingly, Dick had been welcoming, as if he had been waiting for Jason to enter their life. 

Bruce hadn’t thought too much of it then, just incredibly thankful that he doesn’t need to introduce brotherly affection to what should’ve been mistrust between strangers. 

And they’ve been inseparable then. He had never seen them fight—as much as they were physically putting distance between them. Not unlike now. 

It was unnerving. It wasn’t a sight that Bruce wanted to bear witness. 

Not when he’s actively thinking about the possible danger that the Mercenary had brought to the town. Not when he’s thinking of leaving Gotham all together with his family, flying them far away from whatever danger the city is facing right now. He had loved this city, even though his tragedy was engraved by its walls. But he’ll never love this city more than he loved his sons.

He won’t sacrifice his sons’ safety. 

He looked back at his boys, eyeing them. “What’s this about? Truly?” he pleaded, wanting them to just…talk. Hadn’t it been so easy for the two of them to communicate before? 

Dick looked like he was struck by lightning. He gaped—but not words came out. 

Jason looked just as guilty as Dick. But just as his brother, he didn’t utter a single word. 

Dick took a quick glance at Jason and—seemingly coming to a conclusion of his own—decided to blabber. “I—uh—nothing!” he started, his tone inching higher, “it’s just a brother’s spat, dad, you know—nothing serious! I promise!” he continued, laughing nervously at the end. 

Bruce doesn’t believe him one bit. He had his son for almost two decades now to know when he’s bullshitting. 

He saw as Jason tried to look at him, but when he caught his eyes, he quickly diverted his gaze again. “Yeah, it’s uh—” he looked like he wanted to say more, but for some reason, couldn’t. 

“....same.”

Bruce sighed. Out of the four of them, he knew that Jason would be the only one who couldn’t lie to him. Not intentionally. Never blatantly. Which is why Bruce is 100% sure that the reason Jason is so short of his words was because he couldn’t think of a believable lie on the spot, unlike Dick who could sweet-talk himself into absolutely anything. Unless, he had been a nervous mess, faced with the probability of his father prodding something from him. 

For that alone, Bruce knew that Jason would be easier to crack. A little more prodding and he’ll probably start answering questions from their father. But Bruce doesn’t want to meddle so much in his sons’ life, as much as possible, he gave them time to sort their little fights out, believing that they love and care for each other would win over what disagreement they have. 

What had happened back then? After Bruce and Damian were saved from the Court? What had happened between Dick and Jason for them to drift like this?

Bruce turned around, thinking that it was the police—Jason doesn’t have a good relationship with the police, he doesn’t like them, Detective Gordon of course being the exemption. To his surprise, it was Dick. He had a bit of scratches on his arms, and his uniform looked ruffled, as if he had a rough game with his friends. “Dick?”

Dick looked embarrassed. He nervously glanced at his brothers and then to Bruce. “Hey dad, hey bros,” he said, though he looked like he didn't really want to see them right now.

Bruce didn’t know what’s going on but suddenly Jason was in front of Dick, he pushed the elder a bit hard. “Where were you?!” he all but yelled towards the other, his voice filled with anger and frustration.

Dick opened his mouth but Jason cut him off. “We called for you—Damian—he called for you.”

And Dick paled, as if Jason sucker punched him in the stomach. His eyes widened and he looked close to panicking. He looks as if he’s filled with too much regret but doesn’t want to admit it. “I—my phone was destroyed.”

“Your phone?!” Jason hissed back.

Dick raised his voice. “Yes! I got into a fight and my phone got destroyed. I’m sorry if I wasn’t there but I had my problems,” he said, using that I-am-older-so-follow-me voice that Bruce had only heard him say when he’s mediating between Tim and Damian’s scrumbles and Jason was doing nothing but goading them to continue.

Jason moved closer to Dick and he looked like he’s about to punch him, Bruce intervened before it got any more violent. Very seldom does he witness his two older sons clash, since Dick has always been doting and loving towards his little brothers, but once they do, once the two oldest clash—well, it's a hundred times worse than the worst fight of Tim and Damian.

“Hey—” He gently pushed Jason back, creating physical distance between Jason and Dick. He looked back at Jason’s anger and Dick’s mournful look. And he doesn’t understand. “What’s going on?”

Bruce sighed. “You both used to be so close,” he looked at the distance between Dick and Jason, frowning. 

Dick swallowed. He looked guilty, as he turned his gaze away from his father. 

Jason did the same. 

Bruce continued, “I remembered you both roomed for more than a year,” it was true, “just because you liked to be together and don’t want to be separated.” He had been both flattered and rattled that his boys would think that there’s a possibility of Bruce ever separating them, as if he hadn’t gone through all the legal problems just so Jason could be adopted into his family. 

Dick and Jason both cringed, embarrassed of the memory their father brought. 

Bruce smiled at that, at least they remembered it with a slight fondness. “What happened boys?” He truly wanted to know. He doesn’t know how he could fix a problem that he doesn’t know the root cause of. How can he help his sons reconcile if he doesn’t even know why they’re fighting in the first place? 

Yes, Dick had been late when they had been rescued to the Court, but how can Jason fault his older brother for that? Dick wasn’t some secretly trained police officer that would have the means and resources to help save Bruce from the Court. By Gods! They have knives and an electric cage! How can Dick fight them? Yes, Dick may have successfully defended himself and Bruce when Bruce was attacked in his office in the Wayne Tower, but that might have been pure adrenaline kicking in! Dick had only ever learned self-defense, how could he fight off the Court?

He was about to ask this question to Jason, fearing that Jason’s ridiculous expectation of his older brother is the root cause of the issue, when Jason did something surprising. 

Jason bowed his head and whispered, “fuck this.” 

Bruce gasped, a reprimand ready on his lips, when Jason suddenly turned to Dick. 

There was the usual anger in his eyes. But more than that, Bruce saw the hurt that his baby boy was hiding in. “We watch each other’s backs, that’s what you told us,” he said, enunciating every word like daggers. 

Dick swallowed, obviously hurt by the words. 

There was a slight pause, before Jason continued. His voice was so soft, laced with the emotion that he couldn’t express so freely before, “but you weren’t there—” he turned away for a second, before turning back to his brother. His eyes, searching, begging, “and I…I just want to know.”

Dick bit his lips. He looked like he didn't want to answer at first, but looking at his brother’s eyes made him pick a different choice. 

He inched closer to his brother’s side and leaned towards him. He grabbed Jason’s hand and enveloped them with both of his. “And I’m sorry brother,” he pleaded with his eyes, silently begging the other to understand, “I’m sore for not being there.” There was a heavy silence that followed. 

Jason continued to stare at Dick, hoping that he’ll continue. 

And Dick—he remained staring at Jason. He opened his mouth—but nothing came out. He looked at their enjoyed hands, and gave his brother’s hand a tight squeeze. He closed his eyes, and spoke as if he’s in prayer, “believe me…it wasn’t my choice.”

Jason’s eyes widened. 

Bruce remained quiet. 

Dick looked back at Jason, eyes uncertain. With the silence that stretched between them, Bruce saw Dick’s hope starting to fade away. And he caught the instance that Dick looked like he was close to breaking. 

But then, Jason used his free hand to pat Dick’s hands over his own. And with a simple word, mended back their relationship again. 

“Okay.”

Dick’s eyes widened. 

Bruce noticed that they shone with seemingly unshed tears. He silently gasped. 

But then, Dick immediately jumped to the Jason’s side and hugging him—squeezing him tight, as if making up for all the times that he hadn’t been able to do so. “Oh! Brother!” he yelled so lovingly and dramatically. 

Jason groaned and tried to pull Dick away. “Di—you can let go now!” he yelped.

But Dick had been like an octopus, wrapping all his limbs around his brother. He simply shook his head and grabbed tighter. “Ob brother! I’ve missed you so!” he yelled again, like he was a theater actor in a play. 

Jason tried to pull away, pulling out Dick’s limbs but Dick just held on tighter! He glared at Dick, but his eyes betrayed him. 

Bruce could see that he had been just as happy as Dick was that they’re okay now. 

Jason still groaned and kept up with charade, “You little—”

Bruce coughed.

Jason immediately shut up.

Bruce smiled. He was very glad that their problem had been resolved. He stood up and enveloped his boys in a hug. “I’m so happy that you two made up.” He gently brushed their heads together and gave them a kiss on the forehead. “I love you both.”

Dick let go of Jason to hug Bruce too. Jason did the same. 

“We love you too, Dad.” 

“Same here, Dad.”

Bruce chuckled. “Come, let’s eat. I doubt your brothers didn’t wait for you two.” Even though Bruce had told his two youngest to eat first and not wait up for dinner, he knew that they wouldn’t follow through. They’ll either wait for the two brothers in the living area, or at their rooms, but they would wait for all of them to eat together. “They’re probably worried sick.”

Jason snickered at that. “They got that from you, dad.”

Dick smiled, “Amen to that, brother.” 

And then they both gave each other a high-five.

Bruce pouted, pretending to be offended, “Guilty as charged.”

And together, they left the room and were welcomed by Tim and Damian who were watching some old cartoons in the living room.

They ate dinner as a family after.