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The sound echoes through the empty, large shattered walls loudly as he’s making his escape, sharp exhales leaving his lungs with muffled wheezes. His long ripped cape is soaked with water from the small puddles on the floor, making it heavier, but he can’t help but care less. His body is aching and tired and his feet are probably bleeding but he ignores them, and just keeps running, running, as fast as he can, but seemingly slower with every step. It takes the last bit of strength left in him not to cry. Crying is a sign of weakness, but he doesn’t care. He’s pathetically weak already.
The man who tormented his Mother. The man who was always after him, who was always trying to kill him. Slade Wilson. It was foolish of him to think that he wouldn’t find him now.
In what seems to be his final moments, he can’t help but think about what led to that.
His mind quickly sends him to an image of his childhood. His memories of the league's compound, beautiful and peaceful, but deadly silent, almost unreal in many ways. The pink sunsets warmed and desert flowers smelled like home. Grandfather. The Demon’s head, leader of it all with a grand purpose for him that he fought for being worthy of longer than he knew how to live. Mother. A cold, mysterious, murderous woman, but caring, knowing and loving inside. A woman who singed him lullabies under the moonlight secretly in the corner of her own room where no one could hear them. A woman who looked at him with sadness in her eyes when he was punished for refusing to kill the first time. Disappointed, yes, but pitiful, painful for what was done to her child, wanting to provide comfort despite her father’s wrath. A woman who taught him everything she knew, gave away everything she had. That same woman died the day he met his Father.
What came later wasn’t his Mother. A truly cold, heartless, mindless slave to her own goal, forgetting everything she stood for and paying for it dearly. This wasn’t Mother. Mother was dead. This was a stranger.
Then, he thought of Father. Bruce Wayne was a father to many children, by documents and by heart. Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Batgirl, Spoiler, Black Bat, Signal. He chose to care for them all, overcoming all sorts of obstacles, doing everything in his power, even abandoning his own mission just to be there for them, and grieving their losses and deaths when their time came. Father was forgiving and warm, the way that only a parent could be to their child. Bruce never cared which dumpsters these children came from and in which one they’d end up, he looked at them fondly with a gentle smile and never ever so thought about turning any of them down. He apologized endlessly for things he never did and was desperate to never let them go. When Father looked at them, his eyes flashed with something that Damian could never identify. It was content. Hopeful. Loving, but not in a way that Damian was familiar with. Chosen, that look screamed. Bruce cared for these children as if they were the most expensive of gems, because he chose them. Father never looked at him like that. Instead, whenever his youngest appeared anywhere near his sight, his smile vanished. He never chose Damian. The word “Robin” feels weird on his tongue knowing painful truth. It isn’t him. It never was.
Damian was a good pretender, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t notice the cold, judging look that his Father used to give him. Murderer. Monster. Assassin. It was probably something that his siblings never experienced. Just like he never experienced the warm, loving smile that Bruce used to send to all of his kids. Everyone but him.
Todd was something he was familiar with. He reminded him of his Mother sometimes. Cold, closed and violent at first glance, but soft, loving, protective with those who he cared about. His family. He loved ruffling the hair of his so called replacement, fooling around with Grayson and nodding to Cain in silent agreement. But Damian? He was just a little brat to him. Demon. A simple reminder of the suffering he endured, a thought lingering on the edge of his mind. But never a person. Something like he was to his stranger of a mother. Useless. Unwanted. After all, he was nothing like Mother ever was.
Cain was everything and nothing at the same time. She never spoke, yet the room she was in was always full with words. She was the strongest fighter Gotham has ever seen, yet she was the most gentle person he has ever met. She gave everyone short, silent glances, yet there was so much meaning in them that Damian doubted such effect could be achieved with words. She was The Spectator. She always watched and saw everything, yet what she has seen was kept by herself. She was just like Damian, in some way. Always observed, yet never took part in. He wondered if he could spectate The Spectator without being noticed. But either way, it’s not like she cared much about him being there. Just like everyone else. And it was cold.
Drake was perfect and he hated him from the first second. Blue eyes and black hair, a copy of his Father. The detective boy. The future CEO of Wayne Enterprises. The best Robin. The person who saved Bruce from himself. The perfect son. Everything that Damian needed to be. Everything that he couldn’t be. No matter how much he tried to put himself into someone else’s skin, all he could hear in the end was about how much better Drake was. How he could do the same job faster. How he never needed to be replaced in the first place. (How much better it would be if Damian just never appeared). Drake was a spoiled child of two rich brats who did nothing his whole life and got everything. Damian was through hell and back and got nothing.
Grayson was… different. He doesn’t know who or what Grayson is, never did, never will. He just doesn’t understand such people, and it’s one of his countless flaws. Once upon a time, Damian was perfect. Once upon a time, Richard told him that he doesn’t need to be. He was telling many things. You’re my Robin. I care about you. I’d never regret choosing you. I love you. And Damian never understood. These words needed to be held to someone dear to you, to someone special. Not him. Not that thing. Not murderer. Not assassin. Not demon. Yet Grayson kept on saying this nonsense again and again, smiling, and caring, and meaning, and, and… loving. Almost.
Grayson was many things, and everyone saw him as what they wanted him to be. Brave. Heroic. Domestic. Romantic. Sacrificing. Boy Wonder. And Damian? Damian didn’t see anything. He couldn’t. He saw a warm, bright, blinding ray of light. The Sun. And he wasn’t cold anymore.
Grayson was never Red X. Red X was evil. Red X was miserable. Red X was shame. Red X needed to be forgotten.
And when he first found out, something in him twisted. And he couldn’t stop looking at the suit at it’s display. It was like he saw a miracle. A mirror. He saw something familiar. Evil. Miserable. Mistake. Forget. Shame.
Damian was a failure. Damian was a shame to his family. Damian was a bloodthirsty evil murderer.
Damian was Red X.
And so he ran. Away from his family. Away from Gotham. Anywhere, just to rid them of this misery. Somewhere, anywhere, where it won’t be that cold. Where he could be hidden and forgotten forever. And he ran, ran, ran, ran. Ran, until someone started chasing him. And if he’ll stop running, his heart will stop with him.
He doesn’t see himself fall to the ground, but he feels it coming and sees no point in fighting anymore. He doesn’t hear footsteps but he sees the man approaching him. All he can think about is his ugly ironic laughter when he saw his nemesis’ face under the familiar mask. All he can hear is crazy laughter and he wonders if that’s how Jason felt in his final moments. He can’t feel the katana going right through his heart but he can see red. And he wonders, just for a moment, if things would be different if he just listened to Dick.
And Damian’s so, so, so cold.
When Tim Drake finds his little brother after years of search, he’s murdered and wearing a dead man’s mask. And it’s all their fault.