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It struck him hard and painfully. It was harsh, shocking, cold. Not entirely unexpected, but it still felt like a bullet to the back. It was a hit that made him fall and want to never get up.
Instead, he pretended that it was fine. Like he always did.
It haunted him in his sleep. It appeared in the corners, and he fought the urge to find it again. It was black, it was white, it was deadly and nothing important at the same time. For everyone, it didn’t matter. To him, it meant everything. It was an opening to his eyes.
It was something familiar. He understood it and it understood him the way no one and nothing could. It wasn’t a pity, it wasn’t a disgust, it wasn’t a fear. It simply just was it. It was him and he was it. It was a miracle.
A mirror.
Evil. Miserable. Mistake. Forgotten. Shameful.
Everything that Grayson wasn’t, never was, against his claims. Because Grayson could never be it. He could never truly become a villain. He could coexist with his creation, he could pretend to be it, to be the darkness itself, but his inner light always shone through. But Damian, on the other hand?
Damian was Red X.
He was a stranger to his family, the one in the picture that everyone pretended wasn’t there. He was an impostor, something that no one wanted to remember. He wasn’t a loving brother, he wasn’t a trusted or favored child. Instead, he was a little killer. An assassin. Cold-blooded murderer. He wasn’t kind or nice. He wasn’t helpful, or light-hearted, or charming. He was rude. And he was bleak.
And Robin?
Robin was something that he never understood, while living with his Mother in the League. Batman was mysterious, he was a shadow, rising fear in those in Gotham who dared crossing his way. He was a mighty warrior who Mother found worthy of giving her a child, who even Grandfather recognized as a worthy opponent. Batman was the world’s greatest detective who could solve cases and save lives single-handedly like it was nothing for him. Damian waited his whole life to finally meet the hero, to finally learn from him, to take up the cowl and fulfill the legacy his Mother promised him since birth. So why, why would he need help from a brightly costumed inexperienced child? It didn’t make sense.
Robin was unworthy of fighting beside his Father’s side. He was too confident, too childish. He always made jokes, broke the plans with his disobedient behavior, forced Batman to come to his rescue and was more of trouble than help. And with each Robin, it only got worse. Grayson was a skillful acrobat whose strength and determination might impress even his Mother, so Damian respected Nightwing deeply in his mind. Todd impressed Batman with his stealing skills and will to survive, therefore he was chosen to be his Father’s partner and he never held back his violence or words, and even if the feeling wasn’t mutual, Damian could respect him. But Drake was something he couldn’t handle. He appeared out of nowhere when no one asked for him, self proclaimed himself Robin and made his way into the family. He didn’t deserve to be where he was. He didn’t deserve his Father’s love. It must’ve been him. Instead, it was some rich kid who thought he could do whatever he wants. It drove him crazy. It wasn’t supposed to happen! So when his Mother demanded that the little detective must be killed, he agreed eagerly.
Instead, it was him who died. It was him who Father looked at like a ghost. It was him that Father wanted nothing to do with. It was him who Father didn’t want as his partner. It was him who didn’t deserve to be Robin. It was unfair.
And then, he became Robin.
And he understood.
Robin wasn’t supposed to be stealthy or hidden by a shadow. He was supposed to be seen. Robin was created to be shown.
Batman made people fear.
Robin made people hope.
Robin was a name that was carried with love, that represented family and relation. It was as much of a legacy as the title of Batman was. Robin was known by Gothamites as a kind, charming, enthusiastic helper. Robin was a symbol, one that carried the world on his shoulders and encouraged people to do the same. Robin made freezing Gotham hearts warm up with his gentle smile, little cheery jokes and small talk. Robin was optimistic. Robin was loved. Robin was nice. Robin was inspiring.
Damian wasn’t Robin.
He was anything but. He was an impostor, a hollow husk that only existed to give an appearance of what it was imitating, a filthy thief who came out of the shadows and stole the title from it’s rightful owner. Unworthy, but rightful. He wasn’t light, or cheerful, or kind. His jokes were always cruel and sadistic and never funny. His every word tended to terrify children and make criminals flee with horror. His moves were calculated to the point of being robotic, inhuman in many senses. His skin was cold and he never smiled. (He was freezing on the inside and anything alive in him probably already died of the cold).
He was an impostor.
He was inhuman.
He was a filthy thief.
He had red stained all over his hands with the blood of those who he murderer.
He wasn’t Robin.
And he was terrified of pretending that he was.
And yet, he dreaded the day his Father’s family would get to their senses as well. Dreaded the day they finally saw the monster they let under their roof. The day they saw who they entrusted with the title that only the worthiest could earn. He dreaded the cold, judging stares. He dreaded tears of betrayal, screams of hatred and his skin growing hot in places their punches landed (Still not hot enough to at least get through the ice to his real skin). He dreaded blindly running through streets of Gotham, so familiar yet so foreign, itching to find home that he never had there, never had anywhere. He dreaded the cage that he could already see his Father building for him, just as soon as he realized what a creature he let near his children. His real children, that needed no blood to prove him anything. He wasn’t even a real person.
So, he continued to do what he did best. Pretend. Be the empty little husk everyone wanted him to be. Don’t let them see who you really are.
But he wasn’t Robin. He was everything that Robin wasn’t and it was hard to prove anyone otherwise.
So he stopped trying.
It was normal, in the begging. Almost. No one noticed any changes. No one noticed how everything inside him shattered to little pieces in one second. No one noticed how he quickly composed himself and continued going on as if nothing happened. Nothing happened, really.
His punches didn’t land as hard as they did the night before, if you asked him. But no one asked, so he kept his mouth shut. He avoided any attack almost gracefully, not letting a single bone of his to break or a wound to open. He could fool anyone and he almost wanted to smile proudly. Almost.
He apprehended the criminals rather peacefully, without causing any severe injuries this time. He kicked and punched, he was furious to anyone who would look from the side. He was calculated, robotic, his normal, inhuman self. Lifting limbs was harder every second as the layer of ice thickened in the cold of the night. He didn’t stay to check up on victims, just as usually. He used to think these people were pathetic. But at least they were people. He quickly grappled to the building ahead of him without much thinking. All just muscle memory.
“Great job, short stack!” He could hear Red Hood cheering behind him.
“I know,” he replied rather smugly. He knew. He was trained to do this since birth. To play a role, to wear a mask. To lie. He did a great job at keeping the shattered pieces of himself together, pretending to be someone else.
Until he didn’t.
Eventually, he started getting sloppier. His punches not only no longer injured his opponents, in fact, they were so weak that they had no effect at all. His moves were no longer graceful and calculated, but slow and pathetic. He wasn’t energetic or cheerful, still. He didn’t magically become Robin because of pretending to be him. Yet he desperately clung to the role, not letting the play stop even in his sleep. He must keep on. The longer he keeps the facade on, the further will be the moment their peace will come to an end.
—————————
In one of the many nights of his play, he let Drake get injured. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence in his relationship with Red Robin, far from it. But he made Father believe that he taught him better than that, that he learnt his lesson. And it was his job to meet the expectation. But he didn’t, because he was broken. He let Red Robin fall on these spikes and he dreaded what Father would say. What Father would think. What Father would realize.
“Your ignorance is unacceptable, Damian!” He heard his Father’s voice echo from the cave’s walls. “I taught you not to jeopardize one of your team members, and I know you well could’ve prevented that fall. You need to discipline yourself”. His furious rant continued, almost as loud as a tsunami, filling Damian’s ears with tinnitus and his heart with fear. He gulped. “Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Father,” he replied obediently without hesitation.
“Go to your room,” he heard the order and his legs carried him quickly up the stairs. And eyes, eyes, stares. Everyone’s eyes were on him. Everyone was looking at him. Panic grew in his soul.
Please, don’t realize…
…
The other night, it’s not Drake who gets injured. It’s not Drake whose body lies on the cold concrete, a puddle of blood underneath him as he bleeds out. It’s not Drake whose bones are shattered into little sharp pieces underneath his skin. It’s not Drake who lies dying terrified and alone. It’s not Drake who wants to scream, to cry, to call for help, but words get stuck inside his throat. Damian isn’t sure it’s such a bad thing after all.
Robin was a protector, a savior. So what was he, if he couldn’t even protect himself? What was he, if he couldn’t even catch himself falling from a building in a middle of nowhere? What was he, after he fell? What is a robin without it’s wings? What’s the purpose of a wingless bird?
Maybe that’s what Father saw in him that night. The purposefulness. The uselessness. Maybe that was the opening to his eyes, just like Red X was to his. It might be the reason he didn’t let him continue following him on his night crusade even as his arms fully recovered. Maybe it was the reason Grayson hid his Robin costume somewhere far away, somewhere he couldn’t find and reach it. Unworthy, the action screamed. Disappointment, the action screamed. Maybe that was the reason everyone silently turned their backs on him and disappeared into the shadows. Father. Richard. Todd. Cain. Brown. Maybe it was the reason everyone always left him behind.
Either way, he is there now.
In a giant silent cave full of bats, benched with no hope of ever getting back up. With Oracle’s silent keyboard clicks and eventual guiding whispers. She was included into their action, no matter how far away she might be. No matter how close he was, he always got left aside.
Oracle was always a worthy ally. He admired her spirit and strength. Even as she couldn’t find a way to stand up, she crawled her way back and succeeded. Barbara was a beautiful and intelligent woman. In those rare moments of peace he got he always wondered how her life would turn out if she never became a vigilante. She would probably take her father’s role as he retired. She would be one of Gotham’s finest commissioners, taking from her predecessor and doing the job fairly. Instead, she got to sit inside a giant hollow cave with no sunlight, a prisoner to her own loyalty. But then again, was she that much of a prisoner if she had a choice? Would her choice to use her intelligence to find and punish criminals make her a prisoner? It was impossible to tell. And if he was being honest, he always envied her, with how much of a choice it was to her. How little to say he had about his life.
The ground feels cold against his bare skin as he sits on the cave’s floor. It makes him sick, but he can’t bring himself to leave the place he’s always longing for so much. Not when there’s so much he doesn’t know. Not when everyone he cares about are still outside doing god knows what. Not when he can’t save them. Not that he could, considering how useless of a Robin he was, anyway. But the thought still makes his stomach sink. So he stills on the ground and lets the ice grow. It’s his purpose, now. It’s his way.
The cave is cold and unwelcoming. When there isn’t a single person there but him and Oracle, a ghost, a shadow terrorizing everyone without even having to get any closer than she already is, he notices how awfully quiet it is. How lifeless, empty it is. Much like himself. Somewhere far away, there’s water dripping in the depth of the cave, and he can hear it, every single drop, so silent, and yet so unbearably loud, like the sound wave would go through his body and shatter his bones again any second…
“Damian,” a soft voice calls for him behind his back as he snaps to reality, and he barely manages to stop himself from flinching before turning to face the speaker. Barbara’s eyes are curious, contrary to her disinterested expression from seconds ago. Or minutes? Hours? He can’t tell.
“What are you doing?” she continues with slight concern in her tone, as if he’s a puzzle that she can’t solve. His lips part in an urge to reply, but no sound leaves them. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing. He doesn’t know why, or how, or how long whatsoever. He doesn’t know why he’s been sitting on the dirty, dusty cave floor for minutes - hours? - and staring into the void. He doesn’t have an answer and it only makes him more sick and lost.
Oracle’s gaze softens as she receives no reply, but she doesn’t return it to the Batcomputer’s screen where it belongs. She sighs with something that isn’t exhaustion or annoyance - Damian can’t tell exactly what it is, but it’s not an emotion he’s unfamiliar with. The silence doesn’t get tense, somehow, but he remains vigilant for some sort of an outcome. Maybe it’s a test? Grayson said that there would never be any tests as long as he lives with his Father, but still, it would only be logical to question the mistaken Robin, to determine if he was still capable. If he was still useful for the mission. If he was still needed.
Barbara sighs again with that same sentiment, as if trying to tell something through it. To show him something that cannot be shown with words. But he doesn’t understand. He’s aware of those silences filled with meaning that Cain creates, they’re always there to express something high, inhumanly so, that made his heart lighten. But this - if this was an attempt to speak, then it was in a whole alien language that he had no chances of understanding even after decades of learning body language.
“I know what it’s like for you,” she says eventually, causing even more confusion to arise. Damian lifts his head ever so slightly, showing her that he’s all ears.
“I see it like you see,” Gordon continues, and he’s only left to wonder when her wheelchair’s moved from the monitor to being so close to him. Not close, not really. No one is.
“This must feel for you like when I was… disabled,” she compares, pain quickly flashing through her eyes with the sharp memory of loss and sorrow. His arms? Broken and limp, shattered and useless? He supposes, perhaps, that Gordon is right. It really did feel like a loss. But never as much as hers, not when she had to give up everything she enjoyed in life, abandon her ways and adopt to those a villain forced upon her. Everyone learned to respect her loss, and his, compared to hers, having to spend a few months at home before restoring to full health, is nothing. So what is she talking about?
“This feeling of helplessness. Not being able to do anything,” she says after some time with a depth to her voice that implied there was more to it. He, again, decides that Gordon is not at all wrong. Although most of the time of his injury he was barely conscious, the feeling of being helpless… wasn’t unfamiliar to him. If he was honest with himself, it was a feeling that followed him anywhere he went in his Father’s city. It ate at him like a thousand worms tearing through his body, dead, he would’ve preferred, but the choice is never his.
“Having to sit there with no action, just because someone else decided so,” she explained further. Damian’s heart empathetically aches. So was Oracle a prisoner more than one would’ve thought? Did she consider herself that much? Or was she thinking of him as the prisoner of the cold stone cave? Barbara returned her gaze straight to him and smiled softly, for some reason.
“After I had to stop being Batgirl, I felt lost,” she admits, although more to herself than anyone else. He’s heard of these times, times when there was a Robin and a Batgirl, and a Batman who cared about both of them equally as for his own children. Times when Gotham’s crime thrived, but Father’s sharp fist put a start to a war that lasts to his day. When the wounds were still fresh and so was the hope. When there was no death, no loss or fear. When there was no betrayal and the future seemed bright and welcoming. Those times of which Mother used to sing him lullabies about at a young age, soured with a promise to meet his Father that never came true. “I was scared and unsure. I’ve never imagined my life without Batgirl,” Gordon narrates like a tale of her life, a tragedy with many acts, yet a comedy for the one who staged it. “Who was I if not Batgirl? What was left for me to do? How can I be useful if I have problems even getting myself a cup of water at night?” she questions as if the question really does matter, as if Father wouldn’t stay loyal to her just because she was already chosen.
“But I’m not useless. I never was,” she argues then, having a conversation with someone who only stares and wonders. Damian could never in his life imagine anyone saying that Oracle was useless, unlike Drake, or Todd, or even Grayson, at times. Oracle was above them, both literally and metaphorically, she knew when they were wrong and she always knew the right way. She was like a guiding star, not illuminating the darkness, but helping to get through it.
“Even at my darkest moment, Bruce never abandoned me,” Gordon reminds him as if he’s forgotten, as if Damian could forget how his Father treats his chosen children. Like he could forget how he would give everything he has, just to keep his children with him. Like he could forget that in the end, he was the only one to be left alone and abandoned, scared and hurt, to die and rot. “And he helped me to find my new purpose. Discover that I’m not just Batgirl, I’m something more,” she smirks. “That my life doesn’t have to end with my vigilante persona. That I am not Batgirl, or not Oracle. I’m Barbara Gordon, and I can be anything I want,” she finishes with pride in her voice and looks at him like she sees him through, like she understands every thought of his that he never even voiced, as if they were the same and alike.
“Being benched from Robin must feel as bad for you,” she concludes the thought, although Damian isn’t sure he can agree. He doesn’t love being Robin. Not anymore. But her eyes shine with understanding and he hopes she means what he really does. “Sometimes, you may feel like you’re only Robin, like you’re only good for fighting and that’s the only thing that you are,” That’s the only thing that I’m not, he itches to correct, but sits still, listening like his life depends on it. “But… remember, that it’s not true,” she continues immediately, and Damian’s heart almost completely stops, unsure how to interpret.
“You’re Damian Wayne, and nothing else matters”.
Her warm words are almost like a hit. They’re kind and sincere, not a hint of a lie in the bittersweet voice or her soft expression. She’s smiling at him with one of the brightest smiles he’s ever seen, competing Grayson’s and Mizoguchi’s. He’s got nothing else to do but to believe every word she said, every word she meant, even if she doesn’t know the truth, and weakly smile back at her as warmth of something reminding him of Father’s smiles washes over his blood, melting nearly all the ice around his soul that Grayson couldn’t even touch. (Love, he’d say, if it could be true.)
He knows he’ll have to leave, eventually. That one day they’ll see what he really is.
He knows that one day, he’ll see red.
But for now, he’s okay.