Archive of Our Own

Damian crossed his arms. “Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”

“I know. They forgot the orange in my mango-orange smoothie.” Jon took a long slurp and smacked his lips. “Never mind, I taste it now.”

“Not that. What our fathers said.”

“That we’re not old enough to help on the case?”

“Precisely!” he exclaimed. “Think about it, Superboy. Unregistered LexCorp weapons are being trafficked and no one has any idea where they are or the damage they could do if they fall into the wrong hands. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have reinforcements spread out to increase the likelihood of intercepting them?”

Jon nodded, legs swinging over the billboard. “So… what are the weapons?”

“I don’t know. My father wouldn’t tell me, as if I can’t handle it.” Damian balled up his sandwich wrapper and chucked it onto the Metropolis streets. 

Jon zipped down, came back, and dropped the wrapper in Damian’s hand. “No littering.”

Damian unfolded the wrapper. “What should we do?”

“You’re asking me?” Jon asked incredulously, sitting down on the ledge. 

“Is that not what friends do?” He began refolding the wrapper. “At least, that’s what I read.”

Jon grinned. “Well, we can go to the new cheese shop that opened. They have free samples of everything, including vegan ones like cashew cheese. Kon told me to start in the back and work through the aisles in a zigzag—HEY!”

Damian snickered as the paper plane bounced off the side of Jon’s head. 

“What was that for?”

“Your Midwest was showing.”

Jon threw it back. Damian dodged. “No littering.”

While Jon went to get it, Damian stole a sip of the smoothie (the orange was barely there) and gazed at where the LexCorp Tower loomed over the smaller buildings. Typical Luthor. Though, if he wasn’t in his office… 

Jon returned. “I threw it away.”

“You surrendered our most valuable asset, just like that?”

He laughed. “We should get back to patrols. Your sarcasm is getting better, by the way.”

Damian shot his grapple. “Blame it on my brothers.”

Luthor’s office was dark. Jon held Damian as he picked the lock to the top-floor window.

“How are firefighters supposed to get up here?” Jon asked. 

Damian jimmied the lock. “They just call your father with the Super-signal or whatever you have. Or if they’re feeling daring, your brother.” 

“There’s no Super-signal.”

“How do the police call for your help then?”

“The police in Metropolis do their jobs .”

“Preposterous.” 

“Having a Bat-signal is stupid. Are they supposed to put one on every building? And why do they only shine one at a time? Gotham’s full of crime, the sky should be all Bat-signals.” 

“Will you shut up?”

“We’re friends, you have to put up with me.” 

Damian flicked out a pocket knife. “Who can stab who here?”

“And who can drop who?” 

Damian grumbled and turned back to the lock. 

Jon cheered. “Point to me!”

“At least hold on with both hands.”

“Relax,” he said. “Super strength, remember?”

“But you have tiny baby hands. You can hardly hold a cup.”

“I’m still taller than you .” 

The window popped open and Damian slid in. He briefly shined his flashlight around the office. So far, the only notable thing was that Luthor had apparently ordered the same sandwich as him. He shuddered. He knew he should’ve gotten the tofu. 

“I believe we might find more evidence here. Superboy, scan the building.”

“What’s the magic word?” 

Damian rolled his eyes. “Superboy, use Byakugan.”

“On it!”

There was a whoosh through the comms. 

“I see signs of life in the B4 basement level,” Jon said. 

“Nice job. It’s most likely restricted access, but nothing I can’t bypass.” 

“Or you can take the vents.”

“No,” Damian said. “You’re just going to make Among Us jokes.” 

“Fine, then.” Jon whistled. “Guess you don’t need to know the elevator doesn’t go down there.”

He cursed under his breath before taking off the dusty vent cover. “No jokes. You stay outside and keep a lookout. Don’t get caught.” He crawled in. 

Jon said, “When you put it like that, it sounds—”

“Don’t say it.”

“It sounds kinda—”

“I’m warning you.” 

“Alright, alright. Keep a lookout, got it,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Damian shimmied forward. 

“Sounds kinda sus.” 

He muted the comm. 

Level B4 was so far underground that Damian almost mistook it for Jason’s grave. 

He elbowed the vent cover open, jumped out, and stuck a swift, silent landing that he totally didn’t steal from an anime. He had knocked out the night shift guards with a healthy amount of chloroform and disabled all the cameras in the security office, which meant no one was around to see him do a short victory dance. 

God, Jon was rubbing off on him. 

Even with a tactical flashlight, the stripped concrete corridors stretched for eternity. There better not be anyone here. Damian had just gone through a mile of dusty ventilation, he was not in the mood for self-important villain conversations. 

Father would have told him to stick to the walls as if he wasn’t already. As much as Damian loved him, Father could be patronizing at times. He acted as if Damian learned absolutely nothing from the League and had to be guided through the basics, like how to sneak silently. He’d known that since he was two and three-quarters and Grandfather forbade snacks (only Jon knew of his endless pocket grapes trick). 

Richard was just as bad, trying to shepherd him into meaningless “kid stuff” all the time, like mini golf and the mirror maze. He acted as though it was some great tragedy that Damian never had Froot Loops. He said normal children didn’t stab people. After seeing fifth graders with mechanical pencils, Damian could attest that was a bald-faced lie. 

If only he was an adult already. Then his family would finally cease their nonsense. 

When he turned the corner, he spotted a round, glowing sphere. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Luthor got his hands on a crystal ball. That wasn’t an impossibility, but a closer inspection sucked the air out of his lungs. 

That… that… place. The smell of a carefully crafted chemical formula, the taste of mineral-laced water bubbling up from between green fluorescent lights. Because of course he did. The League sculpted him to perfection, and memory wasn’t exempt. It was hazy, but he wanted nothing more than to scrub it like Alfred’s vendetta against dirty ovens. 

He placed a hand on the glass. What was Luthor getting at? Did he smile as Mother did, giving it a name and saying one day it’ll rule the world? 

Damian looked around. To one side of the cavernous room lay supply racks piled with syringes and test tubes of strange formulations, alongside some office supplies and linen towels. 

He took a picture and sent it to Jon with a text that said, “Prepare for extraction.” 

Damian tossed a towel over his shoulder. Standing above the tank, he drew his katana. 

He paused.

What if it was too early? What if it wasn’t ready?

He gulped. Either way, he was halting the production of another weapon… right? So why the hesitation?

His heartbeat quickened. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He unmuted his comm and out flooded Jon’s voice.

“—can’t see you. I think the walls are lead or something. What’s happening? Why is there a—”

He brought his hilt down. Cracks spider-webbed across the glass. 

“Seriously, Damian, what’s going on?”

“Code names,” he hissed.

He tapped the glass more lightly with the hilt. Small pieces fell through, settling at the bottom. He sheathed the sword. Water poured onto his boots as he peeled the bigger shard away. To both dread and relief, alarms and a sharp cry shattered the silence.

Jon said, “Is that a—”

“Yes, it is.” Damian disconnected the plastic tubing and swaddled the newborn in the towel. He brushed back the wet strings of hair. Big eyes and rosy cheeks turned up toward him. “Rendezvous in two. I’ll explain everything.”

The vents were no longer an option, so stairs it was. His boots squeaked up the iron steps.

Halfway through, someone shouted. Damian shielded the baby’s eyes as the security guards’ lights landed on them. There were three in total. 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re only making this harder for yourselves. Next time, just stay down.” 

The first one reached out to grab him. With one arm, Damian held the baby close. With the other, he intercepted the man’s wrist and twisted it behind his shoulder. It cracked and the man fell to the floor, yowling. 

The second one grabbed his radio, calling for backup. Damian knocked it out of his hands with a batarang. Both clattered to the ground behind the guard. Damian slid past, grabbed the batarang, and kicked the radio away. It disappeared in the dark before a faint clatter a second later. 

The guard lunged at Damian, demanding the radio back. It was kind of pathetic. Damian sidestepped, snatched the guard’s baton, and struck behind the knees. Before the man fell to his knees, Damian yanked him up by the back of his sweaty shirt and threw him over the railing. At least now he could get his radio back. 

He turned to the third guard—the shortest, skinniest, and youngest with a sad mop of yellow hair on his potato-shaped head. “First day?”

The security guard nodded, taking a small step back. 

“And I thought Luthor employed the best,” Damian muttered. He repositioned the baby in his arms. “Leave. And before you tell anyone what happened, I’ll have you know I’m a lethal shot with a batarang. Plus, I have your name and badge number…” He squinted at the nametag. “Craigbert?” 

“I-It’s a combination of my grandpas’ names,” the guard stuttered. “Craig a-and Robert.” 

“No wonder you became third-rate law enforcement.” 

“Well, actually—”

Damian casually drew his sword.

Craigbert nodded. “I’ll just… go…”

“Good idea.” 

Craigbert skittered away, stopping only to prop the door open for Damian (how kind, not that he was taking it). Damian sensed the first guard groaning and pulling himself behind him. 

“I’m literally holding a katana,” he reminded him. 

“Fair point.” The guard lowered himself to the ground, mumbling, “I don’t get paid enough for this.” 

Damian took a Wayne Enterprises business card out of his utility belt and flicked it at the security guard, the corner sticking between the grates by his head. 

“I’ll hand it to you,” he said, “Doug is a marginally better name than your colleague’s.” 

Thank goodness for all-night laundromats. Once they were far enough from LexCorp Tower and prying security cameras, Damian and Jon borrowed some civilian clothes from Lost and Found. While Jon watched their sweaty (and in Damian’s case, chemical-laced) costumes tumble through the soapy water, Damian fashioned a makeshift diaper out of paper towels before slipping the baby into a lime green onesie.

Jon whistled. “So… does the baby have a name?” 

He was taking it surprisingly calmly after the initial shock of Damian’s explanation wore off. 

“Not that I could find,” Damian said. “It’s not atypical. I was not named until I passed the final quality checks. And I doubt Lex Luthor would name it at all, given how your brother was Superboy before Conner.” 

“… What do you mean by quality check?” Jon asked. 

He handed Jon the baby and grabbed a small laundry basket.

“Damian, wait,” Jon said. “I’m confused. Also, I don’t know how to hold a baby.”

Damian guided Jon’s hand to cradle the infant’s head before turning to the Lost and Found bin again. There wasn’t anyone around to mind. The employee was absently flipping through a magazine while nursing a large coffee and the only other customer was a man who was more stoned than Gotham’s gargoyles. He layered together pillowcases, T-shirts, and towels until they formed a mattress that was slightly softer than the one he used to sleep on. 

“Damian,” Jon said again. “What were the quality checks?”

Damian sighed. “I remember what it was like before I… before I came into the world. I wasn’t born like you, Jon. I was created to be the ideal heir. The perfect weapon.” 

He grabbed a dog-shaped knee sock and several smaller ones. 

“At every gestational milestone, Grandfather sent teams of experts to report on every aspect of how I grew, down to the hair follicle.” He scowled. “Even back then, I felt a rush whenever I was praised.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon set the baby in the makeshift bed. 

“Don’t. You couldn’t control it. You were still in two different bodies.” Damian stuffed the big sock, knotted the end shut, and put it in the baby’s arms. The baby immediately latched on, biting the floppy ear. 

“Cute,” Jon said.

Damian said, “They all look the same to me. Except myself. I was such a beautiful infant that I reset the standard and now nobody can reach it.”

Jon playfully shoved Damian. “I bet you looked like a pretzel bun. You still kinda do.” 

“At least I didn’t look like the Michelin man.” 

“Well, I don’t anymore, do I?” Jon waved his floppy noodle arms. 

Damian snorted. “Now you look like a car wash inflatable.” 

“At least my costume isn’t a five-time hand-me-down.”

“No, just the dog’s.” 

Jon glanced back at the baby. “Who do you think the parents are? I hope it’s not my dad. I like being the youngest. I just widen my eyes and get whatever I want. Like this.” He peeled his eyelids open with his fingers and inched closer to Damian. 

Damian leaned away. “What are you doing?”

“The Eyeball Juice Method. Buy me ice cream or I’ll touch you with my eyeballs.” 

“And this works?”

“All the time on Kon.” Jon let go and blinked. 

“I must try that at home.” Damian turned to the baby. “I don’t know who the parents are, but I know we shouldn’t go to the police station.”

“Why not?” Jon asked. 

“Billy told me his experience. Richard and Duke too. The foster system is an inhospitable place to grow up. I would be a hypocrite to give into that.” 

“So what then? Do we just keep the baby? We’re in middle school, Damian.” 

“Who else is going to figure out what Luthor is planning?”

“How ‘bout the Justice League?”

“They won’t understand.” Damian tossed a hand towel into a dryer and inserted a quarter. “If you don’t wish to help, I won’t make you.” 

The dryer started. Meanwhile, the buttons on his costume rattled against the washer barrel. He leaned against the machine and checked his phone—so far, nothing from his family or Oracle. Either they had their hands full or retired early. 

Jon said, “What makes you think I don’t wanna help?” 

Damian shrugged. “It can be a handful.” 

Jon held out his hands. “Good thing I have two!” 

Damian put his phone in his pocket. “First order of business: we need a safe place.”

Jon thought for a second before snapping his fingers. “I know just the thing!”

The doors of the undersea pod hissed open as water drained through the grates. Damian had to admit, it was a good idea. The bottom of Morrison Bay was the last place anyone would check. 

“First order of business,” Damian said, “we need to feed the baby.”

“Easy peasy,” said Jon.

They stood there.

“Well?” Damian asked. “Aren’t we going to feed it?”

“I thought you were. I don’t know what babies eat.”

“I don’t know what babies eat either.”

“Okay, um…” Jon paced around. “In TV shows, it’s always a bottle of milk or some kind of mush.”

“I see we are following cartoon logic today.”

“Do you have a better idea?” he retorted.

Damian grumbled under his breath as they made their way to the kitchen. “Milk and mush it is. I’ll prepare the milk, you prepare the mush.”

“Why can’t you do the mush?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I don’t wanna either.”

“Best out of three,” Damian said.

They stopped at the doorway. Jon asked, “Are we doing rock-paper-scissors or rock-paper-scissors-shoot?”

Damian scoffed. “It’s always rock-paper-scissors.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s rock-paper-scissors-shoot.”

“Not according to the encyclopedia of children’s games.”

Jon groaned. “Fine, we’ll do it your way.”

“Because my way is right.”

Rock, paper, scissors. Damian’s paper beat Jon’s rock.

Rock, paper, scissors. Jon’s scissors beat Damian’s paper.

Rock, paper, scissors. They both threw rock.

Rock, paper, scissors. They both threw rock again.

Rock, paper, scissors. Damian put up a finger gun. 

“The heck is that?” Jon asked.

“Gun beats everything.” Damian pretended to blow on the smoking barrel. “Jason taught me.”

While Jon was rummaging through the refrigerator, Damian found a Daily Planet bottle with a pop-up cap. Unscrewing the cap proved more difficult than he thought with the baby wide awake and vying for attention. 

“Can I please get one minute?” he asked. 

Apparently, he couldn’t, because the whining turned into a full-blown cry. And it didn’t help that Jon started the blender right that moment. 

Damian poked the baby’s belly. “Come on, where is your snooze button?” He looked over to Jon. “Do you know how to get babies to stop crying?”

“Did you try a lullaby?” Jon suggested.

“I don’t know any,” Damian said. “Send me some.”

“On it.”

Between the blender grinding and trying to calm the baby with his poor attempts at cradling, Damian almost missed his phone go off. A wave of relief washed over him when he saw Jon had sent a song. He maneuvered the baby and pressed play.

“SomeBODY ONCE TOLD ME—”

Over the high-speed blender, Damian shouted, “Jon!”

“What?” Jon shouted back.

“I asked for a lullaby!”

“This is my personal lullaby,” he said. “I fall asleep to it every night.” 

“You are a dysfunctional human being.”

“Says the Robin.” Jon flew over and changed it. “There, happy?”

Steady chords and a soft beat played. The baby calmed down. 

“Better,” Damian said, putting the baby back in the hamper. 

He went back to warming up the milk. He wasn’t sure if babies could have dairy—he did, but he wasn’t like a lot of the others—so he filled two-thirds of the bottle with milk and the rest with lukewarm water before sticking it in the microwave for twenty seconds. 

“Hang on, isn’t this Toto’s Africa?” Damian asked.

“Yeah. You can skip it.”

“Is the next one a Rickroll?”

“…No.”

“Jonathan Samuel Kent, look me in the eye and tell me it’s not a Rickroll.”

“I promise it’s not a Rickroll.” 

It was a Rickroll. He ignored Jon’s snickering and took the milk out of the microwave. “I’m done, what about you?”

“Did you test it?” Jon asked.

“What?”

“On TV they always do that thing with the bottle. You know what I’m talking about.”

Damian squeezed the bottle. The milk shot straight up before raining down on them. 

“The bottle works,” Damian said, wiping his mask. 

“Cool, I’m almost done too.”

Jon poured a thick dark orange puree onto a Cheese Viking paper plate. 

“What is that?” Damian asked.

“Dinner mash,” Jon answered. “I didn’t know what the baby liked, so I added a little of everything. We got pizza, baked beans, egg salad, and noodles. Plus apple pie for dessert.”

“Very well.” 

Damian sat the baby up on the floor and Jon placed the food and milk bottle in front of it. The baby stared blankly. 

“Go on.” Jon nudged the plate closer. “It’s all yours.” 

The baby blinked. Jon scooped a bit and put the spoon in the baby’s hand. It flew back over his shoulder, splattering against the tile. 

“Maybe it’s your cooking,” Damian suggested.

“I’m a great cook,” Jon replied defensively. “Ever thought of mixing peanut butter with marshmallows? I don’t think so, ‘cause I pioneered it.”

“Then taste it.”

“You taste it and see for yourself.”

“I’m a vegan.” Damian handed him a fork. “Go on, Chef Ramsay.”

With an indignant huff, Jon took a large forkful and stuffed it into his mouth. His cheeks puffed up like Alvin and the Chipmunks. 

“Are you going to swallow?” Damian asked. 

Jon shook his head. “It’s better this way.”

Damian pulled up the spout of the bottle and brought it to the baby’s lips. “Maybe this will work.”

The baby got a couple of sips in before promptly spitting it up, dribbling onto the towel and Damian’s clothes. Damian groaned in disgust and put the baby back in the hamper.

“Who knew infants were such biohazards?” he said. “How do I clean this off?”

He was met with a jet of water soaking through his clothes and making his heavy uniform even heavier. 

He sputtered. “What was that for?!”

“Helping you clean.” Jon released the spray nozzle. 

Damian peeled his gloves off. “I’m going to shower and change. Keep the baby alive.”

Father told him. His siblings told him. Even Stephanie told him. But he refused to listen when they said not to fill his closet with all uniforms. 

It made sense in his head. A good Robin should always be prepared. If someone attacked in the middle of the night, he could spring out of bed with his batarangs at the ready. Now, though, he wanted nothing more than to slip into some comfortable pajamas. 

After securing his cloak, he went out to find Jon and the baby. But they weren’t in the kitchen, den, or command room.

“Jon?” he called. 

“In here!”

He followed the voice to the bathroom at the end of the hall. 

It looked like the inside of a teddy bear. Long ribbons of toilet paper covered the floor and counters. The sink overflowed with berry-scented suds. Towels that were once folded on the rack now lay in a sopping heap in the tub. Jon stood on the toilet seat, baby in one hand and a plunger in the other. 

“The baby had a weird smell, so I thought I could start a bath,” Jon said. “And then I saw a spider.”

“This isn’t working,” Damian said.

“Hey, the spider was really freaky. Is it still here?”

“I mean this .” He gestured. “The Fortress of Attitude is not equipped for this.”

Jon stepped off the toilet. “What, there’s no Unexpected Baby protocol?”

“That’s for Father and Kyle.” Damian took the baby. 

Jon’s phone rang. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

Damian picked through the towels until he found a clean one to wrap the baby in. In the hallway storage, he found some more. He wrapped them in a sling around him and secured the baby. 

“My dad wants me home,” Jon said regretfully. “What are we gonna do?”

“I’ll call in reinforcements. Just finish patrols early and rendezvous back here tomorrow evening.”

“We need to figure out what you are.”

Thankfully, the baby was fast asleep on the table as the scanner slowly ran across, humming so calmly that Damian was tempted to shut his eyes. While the computer tabulated the findings, he made some calls. 

“Computer, call Maya Ducard.”

Maya Ducard is currently unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?

Damian groaned. “Call Colin Wilkes.”

Colin Wilkes is currently unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?

He went down all the contacts that weren’t family or would rat him out to his family.

“Last resort,” he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Computer, call Billy Batson.”

The line rang a few times before someone picked up. Damian almost wished it hadn’t.

“Hey, what’s up?” In the background, Damian heard a cascade of clinking.

“Are you making cereal right now?”

“Yeah, so?” Silverware shuffled. “If the world’s ending again, can you tell it to wait? I have Frosted Flakes and you know how fast they get soggy.” 

“I’m cashing in a favor.”

“I didn’t know I owed you one.”

“If it weren’t for me, you and your brother would’ve exposed your identities via sewage stench.”

“Alright, fine,” Billy said, mouth full. “What do you need?”

“What’s your experience with babies?”

“I used to be one.” 

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want? I’m fourteen.”

Damian’s eye twitched at the sound of Billy pouring more cereal. He took a deep breath. “I need a babysitter.”

“Pass.”

“I’ll pay you. I’m not too familiar with wages in this sector. Is two hundred an hour enough?”

“Three hundred,” Billy said.

Damian rolled his eyes. “Deal. Get here as soon as you can.”

“Sure, I’ll be there after—”

“After your cereal. I know, I know.” 

He ended the call and turned to the baby, who was still fast asleep. 

“Someone ought to give you a name.” He stifled a yawn. “I’ll brainstorm and get back to you. Though, a worthy name is difficult to come by.”

The machine dinged. He turned back to the computer and pulled up the DNA analysis.

As suspected, part of the genes was Kryptonian. Was this Luthor’s latest attempt at creating a Super who would bend to his will? Or was this just the start of something bigger? Damian scowled. Not under his watch. 

He scooped the baby off the cold metal table and settled in the warmer, softer living room. Tiny eyelids fluttered, and he wondered what one could dream of with no conception of the world. Which one would the baby grow to know? One of lonely nights and endless regiments preparing for a supposed destiny? Or one like this—the one he spent so long in yet couldn’t ever grasp? 

The glass wall looked out at the bay, the flashlights along the fortress’s exterior illuminating the inky green sea floor. It… unnerved him. He never noticed it with Jon around. 

He yawned again and pulled the baby closer, the same way he sometimes held Alfred the cat when no one was around. Not wearing his hood and mask meant he could at least comfortably rest his head, though it was still awkward with the baby. It felt like carrying a large, dense bread loaf. 

Curled up against the armrest, he hummed a familiar tune. Mother used to sing it on the quieter nights when the moon didn’t glare so harshly through his window. She’d walk him through how to dress himself and brush his teeth before pulling the covers over him and singing the songs her mother used to. Perhaps part of him knew those moments would end when he could do everything himself. He fumbled with the buttons and toothpaste cap. It was the first lie he got away with. 

Slowly, his eyes started slipping shut.

THUNK.

He drew his sword before his eyes even opened, only to sheath it away when he saw Shazam banging against the glass, face turning purple. Damian rolled his eyes and motioned to the airlock. 

“Why didn’t you take the pod?” he asked as Billy caught his breath and de-Shazamed himself. 

“There wasn’t one.”

“Of course there is,” Damian said, gesturing to the pod. “It’s right— oh .” 

Billy pointed to the baby. “This the one?”

“No, I have another in the freezer.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

Damian handed Billy the baby, showing him how to cradle the head, before leading him to the control room. “The results show the baby is part-Kryptonian. As someone with a similar caliber of power, I assume you will be able to handle any unexpected superhuman activity.”

“Where’d you even get—”

“LexCorp Tower. Batman told me to stay away so naturally I broke in.”

“I swear, he acts like he’s your dad.”

“I know, it’s infuriating,” Damian replied. “Regardless, I must return to home base and report to him, so I need you to watch the infant. Food is in the kitchen, but apparently pizza-noodle mush isn’t a favorite.”

“I don’t think it’s old enough for food,” Billy said. “At my old foster home, whenever they ran out of formula, they used either milk or one of those electrolyte drinks for kids.”

“In that case, I might have something.”

Damian went through the cupboards until he found a bottle of an orange-flavored drink. Ms. Lane had insisted on Jon keeping some. 

“We also have milk in the fridge,” he said. “You sure you can handle it while I’m gone?”

“Psh, yeah,” Billy said. “It’s a baby. How hard can it be?”

Damian had hoped to slip through the Cave and up to his room, but when did that work out for any Robin? 

“You’re back late,” Father said.

“I had some last-minute business to take care of,” Damian said, unclasping his cloak and hanging it up.

“What kind of business?”

“None that you should be concerned with.” He took off his boots.

“Damian, I’m your dad. Your business is my business.”

“I was selling weed,” he snapped. 

That stunned Father long enough for Damian to change out of his uniform, take the donut on the desk, and slip upstairs all while Jason was in the corner laughing off his undead derriere. 

Later, Father went up to check on him. As soon as the knob jiggled, Damian flicked the light off and pretended to sleep. 

He felt a hand carding through his hair followed by a gentle kiss along his hairline and a, “Goodnight, kiddo.” 

Father quietly closed the door behind him. Damian opened one eye and glanced over his shoulder at the glass of water on his nightstand. 

He set his alarm extra early that morning. When Alfred asked, he said the art club was meeting before school and got there a full hour early. 

As soon as Alfred left, though, Damian bought some formula, diapers, and a pacifier from a nearby store before taking the ferry down to Morrison Bay, where his deep-sea pod awaited. 

When he arrived at the fortress, it was unrecognizable. 

Tissues and towels were strewn everywhere, some even pasted to the walls. Half-empty bottles spilled off the counter. Not to mention the smell. Damian followed the ear-splitting crying to the control room, where he found Billy wearing goggles, dishwashing gloves, and a hazmat suit made of garbage bags and duct tape. The baby was also wrapped in a black trash bag diaper. 

Damian crossed his arms. “I thought you said you could handle it.” 

“We’re both disappointed in ourselves,” Billy said, handing the baby to Damian. “Not like you could do better. Jon told me.” 

“Right, yeah. You’re dismissed.” He waved.

Billy cleared his throat. 

“What?”

He gestured for Damian to pay up. 

Damian grumbled and pulled out his wallet. He counted the money and slapped it in Billy’s hand.

“Sweet! PS5, here I come.” 

And with that, Damian was alone. He held the baby to eye level and said, “You and I need to figure out a system. You can’t keep making a mess of things like this.”

The baby stared back. 

“You’re right, it’s not your job.” 

He spent the first half of the morning cleaning while bouncing the baby in one arm like some sort of 1950s television housewife, minus an apron, black-and-white filter, and about six inches in height. 

(Okay, not literally. He put the towels in the wash before giving the Roomba a wet wipes bridal train. But tying all those wipes together took time too.) 

Then he changed the baby into some real diapers and made breakfast (the baby’s, not his). This time, he followed a TikTok showing him how to mix and warm the bottle. Out of curiosity, he tasted it and immediately felt sorry for every infant in the world. The baby took it happily though, finishing the bottle in just a few quiet minutes. 

He scoffed. “We need to diversify your palette. I will not have you growing into an adult who orders chicken tenders at a hibachi grill.” 

The baby blinked. 

“Who orders chicken tenders at foreign restaurants? People who peaked in third grade, that’s who.” 

The baby stuck its hand in its mouth. 

“Ew, stop that. Wait until you have teeth before becoming a cannibal.” He glanced around the fortress. “There must be something here to entertain you. We have a TV, but you have the rest of your adult life for that drivel.” 

He searched through the kitchen, office, both his and Jon’s rooms, and recreation area, coming up with a small array of child-safe implements—a video game controller, large-print manga, Two-Face stress doll, and Baby’s First Knife (a plastic one from a Batburger bag). In the living room, Damian laid them out in a line in front of the baby and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

He checked his watch. Somehow, only fifteen minutes had gone by. Yet it felt like an hour. The baby sat there, staring. 

“You are quite particular, aren’t you?” 

The baby blew a nose bubble. 

“I see. You prefer conversation. Just like Stephanie. Very well. What are some hot topics among infants these days?” Damian drummed his fingers against the floor. “Object permanence. It’s innovative, it’s unusual. What implications do you foresee it having in the near future?”

The nose bubble popped. 

“Indeed, the Peek-A-Boo industry is in danger. Its business model will have to undergo major transformation lest it becomes the next Blockbuster.” He paused. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a Boomer, it’s my siblings who told me about it. You want old? Jason's so old he already died.” 

The baby reached an arm out.

“If you wanted to be held you should have said so,” he said, scooping the baby into his lap. “Communication is an essential life skill. I should know—my entire family sucks at it. But you still have time to learn.” 

He booped the baby’s nose. The baby giggled. 

“I’ve refrained from mentioning it to Father because adoption is like cocaine to him, but sometimes I wish I wasn’t the youngest. Everyone treats me like I’m simultaneously a run-off-the-mill child and a serial killer. Like, come on. Serial killers are just entitled man-children with sloppy handiwork. I can do so much better.” 

The baby blinked. 

“Right, off-topic.” 

The baby blinked twice more. 

“My family sounds like a nightmare? Sometimes, yes, they are. But then Father does this thing where he insists on making breakfast on Sundays even though we all beg him not to—something about food being love. He must have picked it up from the Kents.” 

He sighed, smiling.

“Grandfather never did any of that. He was always so wrapped up in business that contact with him was the minimum necessary. Father is a busy man too, but somehow he squeezes in fishing trips where someone is guaranteed to fall off the boat. It’s…” He pursed his lips. 

The beating sun, the chafing lifejacket, and the thrumming engine compounded by Jason and Timothy arguing over which human body part made the best bait. Then there was Richard blasting his summer anthems playlist because according to him, Damian wasn’t a real child unless he knew every lyric. 

“Overwhelming.”

The baby yawned.

“I’m boring. Message received,” he said as the baby nuzzled against his neck.

Damian paced in circles, humming softly until the baby fell asleep. His arms ached, so he put the baby in the hamper crib before turning on the TV and resuming his episode of One Piece. 

As promised, Jon finished his Smallville patrols early. After the handoff, Damian got his solo patrol route from Oracle and quietly slipped into Gotham. 

It was the standard ordeal. A carjacking here, a couple of muggings there. Two-Face tried to rob the Second National Bank of all its two-dollar bills with a number two pencil. The most frustrating part of that wasn’t even the fight, it was the inane monologue after. Damian swung away halfway through when he heard the ice cream truck. 

That brought him to where he was now, legs swinging over a fire escape as he ate his Batman popsicle with wonky gumball eyes. The street was quiet. Nobody was bothering him over the comms. The popsicle looked kind of like a bat-chameleon. It was nice. 

Until a familiar shadow landed behind him.

“What brings you here, Batman?” he asked innocuously. 

“We need to talk.”

He flicked the popsicle stick into a dumpster below. “Did Two-Face break out already? That would be a new personal best.”

“I got a call from school,” Father said. “They said you skipped today, which is odd because I recall Agent A dropping you off early.” 

Damian stiffened. “They must have miscounted. Not that I’m surprised—half of them wouldn’t know a pencil from a string cheese stick. Also, did you know the vice principal is an anti-vaxxer?” 

“Robin.”

He rolled his eyes. “Must we have this conversation right now? It’s neither the time nor place.”

“You weren’t answering your phone. You skipped school and you came home at nearly 2 A.M. last night. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

Father tilted his head. “You seem tired.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Damian scowled. “What I do when we’re not working together is none of your concern.”

Father crossed his arms. “As your parent, it’s my job to make sure you’re not getting into any trouble.”

Damian drew his grapple. “Batman and Robin are partners. I don’t need you looking over my shoulder.” 

Father said, “It’s only until you’re old enough to make the right decisions.”

Old enough.

Something in him snapped. 

“What does that even mean? I was raised by assassins. I patrol one of the most dangerous cities each night with nothing but a katana and glorified shurikens. I died. What will it take to finally be old enough for you?”

Father didn’t say anything. Damian expected as much, but nonetheless it stung.

He shot his grapple and swung away. 

His comms crackled.

“Robin, we have a situation.”

Damian landed behind a parked truck. “Talk to me, Superboy.” 

“Someone outside keeps shining their lights through the windows. I’m pretty sure it’s Lex Luthor,” Jon whispered. “The baby and I are hiding in my room.”

Damian cursed and made his way toward the docks. “I’m on my way. In the meantime, listen carefully, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At the top of your closet, there should be lifejackets in plastic bags.” He swung past a building before shooting his grapple again. “Same goes for mine—you can use one for the baby. You know where the rebreathers are.”

While Jon rummaged through, Damian landed on the docks and summoned the pod. It emerged from the inky harbor and opened with a hiss. 

“I’m done,” Jon said. “But they’re still outside. What do I do?”

“Take cover.” Damian hit a series of buttons and the pod sealed shut. “My ETA is thirteen minutes.”

“Hurry, I—”

Glass shattered. Jon screamed. The baby wailed. Damian pulled up a map of the Fortress of Attitude and found a breach on the West side.

“Superboy, get to the escape pod, now .”

When Jon didn’t answer, Damian ordered the computer to play the security footage while he navigated further into the depths. As he switched on the headlights, the cameras showed water flooding the control room through two punctured holes in the walls. It quickly reached Jon’s ankles. 

Damian cranked the speed all the way up, his heart beating faster every mile the speedometer increased. 

Once the fortress was in sight, he killed the lights and three of the propellers, leaving just one to hover over the sandy seafloor. 

“Computer, scan the premises.”

Scan complete. There are four unidentified objects and one human around the premises.

“Are they a meta?”

Negative.

“Cameras, please.” 

The cameras showed four LexCorp drones on four sides of the fortress plus an unidentified floating pod—a UFP, so to speak. Damian picked an interior camera to see Jon and the baby running for the airlock. 

He fumbled around for his rebreather, but when he couldn’t find it, he muttered a “screw it” and turned the engine back on. 

“Computer, activate homing sequence.”

Four rockets extended from the sides. While he set an automatic course for the airlock, the rockets spiraled out and blew up the four unmanned drones in mushroom clouds of bubbles and debris. 

Damian docked the pod. Water flowed in through the eyelets of his boots as soon as he stepped out.

He called out. “Superboy?” 

A shadow loomed from behind him. “Oh, he’s right here.”

Damian glanced at the reflective trash can. “I’ll admit, this is a surprise, Craigbert. If that’s even your real name.”

“No, it’s my real name,” said the part cop, part evil scientist, all idiotic-looking goon. 

“Jeez, no wonder you became a villain,” Jon said. 

“You be quiet, Imitation Superman.” Craigbert clicked a pistol to Jon’s head. Damian’s breath hitched. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. “He was gonna hurt the baby.”

“It’s okay,” Damian whispered back.

“I can hear you,” Craigbert said.

“You heard nothing.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Did—never mind.” Craigbert cocked his gun again—a feeble and redundant display of power, but to each their own. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“Not really.” Damian reached for his katana. 

“Too bad, I’m telling you anyway. It all started when I needed a part-time job five years ago and landed a semi-lucrative position at LexCorp. I worked closely with Lex Luthor, helping him track the progress of— OW! ”

Jon chomped down on the man’s hand, making him drop the gun. Jon aimed for a kick to the stomach but missed and hit a few inches lower. Craigbert doubled over, squealing in pain. 

Damian said, “On the bright side, there won’t be more of him.”

Through gritted teeth, Craigbert laughed. “This hurts now, but it’ll be worth it. Mr. Luthor will be so proud when I bring him his pet project. Even if I have to wrench it out of the hands of a couple of pesky middle schoolers.”

“He’s not gonna date you,” Jon scoffed.

“Who knows, he might,” Craigbert replied, standing back up. 

The boys gagged.

“Blegh, gross!” Jon exclaimed.

Damian agreed. “Indeed, that is vile.”

“Can you picture it?”

“Stop, I don’t need it in my precious brain space. Burn it.”

“Are you done?” Craigbert crossed his arms. 

“Hang on,” Jon said. “We haven’t even gotten to the Lex germs.”

“No, the horror.”

“It’d be the broccoli of relationships.” 

“Worse: brussel sprouts.” Damian shuddered. 

“My brother told me about Stonewall and this is not what people fought for.”

“Seriously?!” Craigbert exclaimed.

A grappling cord looped around his knees. Damian yanked. The man hit the ground with a thud, his weapon sliding a hair’s distance from his grasp. 

“Never underestimate a pesky middle schooler,” Damian smirked. 

Jon picked up the pistol with two fingers. “I’m just gonna…” He dropped it in the trash. 

Craigbert shiftily covered a piece of glass with his hand.

Damian said, “Superboy, get out. Now.”

Craigbert sliced the cord and hurled the shard at Damian. Damian dodged. Craigbert tackled him, pressing a knee to Damian’s ribs and pinning both his wrists to the ground with one hand. He grazed the piece of glass against Damian’s cheek, giggling. 

The computer must have gotten it wrong. The man’s crazed bloodshot eyes and bared smile was like no other henchman. Despite being a twig of a person, he had an iron grip that made his presence swell. He must have been enhanced. Damian refused to believe otherwise. 

“What are you?” he asked.

“Why? Are you scared?” 

Damian swallowed. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m just your average Joe, but I can smell it on ya.” He pushed down, siphoning the air from Damian’s lungs. “Because even the toughest kids are afraid of being small.”

The weight lifted. Damian glanced up to see Jon dangling the man by the ankle.

“If that’s the case,” Jon said, “why don’t you go pick on someone your own size?”

Craigbert flew into the desk, his body crashing through the big computer before hitting the ground. He groaned, unfocused. 

Jon looked from the shoe in his hand to Craigbert. “You have weird feet.”

Craigbert groaned. “It’s genetic.”

Damian brushed himself off. “You have the perfect villain origin. It’s a shame your skills don’t match up. Or maybe they do, actually.”

Craigbert groaned again and his head lolled. 

“I think the coast is clear.” Jon breathed. 

“How did he even find us?” 

“I didn’t catch it before. They microchipped the baby.”

“Of course they did,” Damian said, jaw clenched. 

They weren’t done yet, though. The water was still rising, now past his knees. 

The building buckled. Dust rained from the ceiling, which Jon shielded the baby from with his cape. The baby screamed. 

“The escape pod,” Damian said.

Just then, a concrete boulder fell, flattening Jon’s escape pod. 

“New plan: take mine.” Damian draped the half-conscious henchman’s arm over his shoulders. “I’ll take care of this idiot. Don’t wait for me.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, I can handle this.”

Jon bit his lip and nodded. 

They parted—Jon with the baby, and Damian in the opposite direction with Craigbert to where a LexCorp mini-sub plugged the gaping hole in the wall. 

The pod was barely big enough for one person, dashing his hopes of using it as his getaway. Damian slapped the man’s hand against the fingerprint recognition and shoved him inside. 

He patted his pockets for a rebreather, only to remember he didn’t have one. 

Screw it. 

He switched on the autopilot and set its course for Stryker’s Island. He took a deep breath. 

The submarine backed out. The rush nearly sucked him into the open water. He grabbed hold of a windowsill, glass shredding his gloves. Pushing against the current, Damian swam for what felt like forever until he reached the stairwell at the end of the hall, where he took a deep gulp of air from the shrinking pocket. 

The fortress trembled. Damian heard something break, but couldn’t pinpoint it under the dark blue emergency lights. It struck his shoulder. Something popped and a searing heat burned from within. He took off his glove and bit down to keep from screaming. 

The water caught up almost as soon as he reached the top. Damian sealed the second-floor door behind him, sliding his katana through the handle. Water still flowed through the bottom, but hopefully, he bought himself some time. 

He braced himself and slammed his shoulder against the wall. He felt another stab and yelped. He kicked the glove aside and tried again with a running start. This time, his shoulder locked back in place with a sound he didn’t think his bones could ever make. His scream bounced off the concrete bricks. Despite that, his shoulder still stung when he moved and was tender to the touch. He winced when his uniform rubbed against it before mentally slapping himself. “Stop it. You were trained better.” 

The second floor had just one set of lights marking the gym. He pushed past the double doors before sealing them shut too. He sliced up a yoga mat with a batarang and stuffed the pieces in the cracks. 

That seemed to do it for now. He reached for his comm, only to feel its absence. He swore under his breath. It must’ve gotten lost on the way. 

He coughed into his sleeve as a chill settled under his sleeve as he wracked his brain for where to go next. Unlike downstairs, the gym didn’t have windows. Father said it was a liability. Damian couldn’t help but chuckle. The gym had plenty of other things—weights, gymnastics bars, sparring dummies, a rock wall covering part of the ceiling, and all kinds of sports equipment. But no windows. The only way out on this floor was—

A thunderclap shook the room. The lights flickered. The building groaned like it was dying as the room pivoted onto its side. Everything slid to one end of the room. Damian jumped over a rolling dumbbell before grasping the bars. More debris fell from above. A harsh gas smell stung his nose. He tasted it along with saltwater and plaster dust. He covered his face with the corner of his cloak. 

To make it to the locker room was an uphill battle against the slippery slanting floor, so instead, he turned his attention to the rock wall. When he was four, he was left in the mountains with a broken arm and only the clothes on his back. If he did it back then, he could do this now. 

As the room continued to tilt, Damian swung himself to where the rock wall became a rock ceiling, latching onto a diamond-shaped handhold. As Timothy would, he connected the dots in a strategic line to the locker room. Like Cassandra, he swallowed the nauseating pain before swinging from hold to hold like Richard. Like Jason, he kicked through the doors, and like Duke, he sprinted across the tops of the lockers until he reached the ventilation shaft. Damian used the corner of his batarang to unscrew the panel before crawling in. Now all that was left was to make it to the hangar where they kept all the spare vehicles. 

He passed by the corner where he kept his secret supply and snack stash. He slipped the money and a new grapple gun into his belt. 

Just as he was above the garage, the floor beneath it gave away. All the submarines and getaway pods crashed to the sandy bottom, leaving the four walls and ceiling rapidly filling up. He sucked in as much air as he could before elbowing the vent open. 

The grate dangled like a hangnail. Damian dove headfirst and used what was left of the lights to swim the wall and around the outside of the building. The train cars lining the exterior offered nothing to hold on to. 

His lungs were on fire. The surface was too far to float to and his body begged him to breathe. He tugged the doors and tried to break the windows. If a stupid Luthor hench could tear a hole, why couldn’t he? Every swing and kick felt a little duller. 

Spots filled his vision. 

Someone called his name. Not Robin, Damian.

A strong arm looped around him. If his limbs weren’t so heavy, he would have broken the nose of whoever was behind him. Instead, all he could muster was weakly brushing his knuckles against metal plating.

The person said, “I got you, kiddo.” 

And for some reason, he was inclined to trust it.

Something covered his face and suddenly he could breathe again. Damian’s eyes darted around until they met Father’s. 

When they broke through the surface, Damian took his rebreather took his rebreather off, gasping. The adrenaline-fueled bravado ebbed away as they swam to the gravel shore. Father sat him down on a dry rock. 

Damian hung his head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve safeguarded the fortress better.”

“That might be true,” Father said, “but also, I could’ve spent a couple extra minutes activating the drones to hold the place together.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t take the gamble.” He brushed the hair out of Damian’s face. 

Jon and his father caught up with them. Clark said, “The cops are wrapping up. Robin, I hate to rush, but if you wanna say goodbye…” 

“Thank you.”

Damian and Jon exchanged a nod.

“I took a page out of your book,” Jon whispered. “The baby’s going to a good place or else.” 

Among the half-circle of Metropolis police and paramedics was a woman in a brown pantsuit with the baby in her arms. She smiled warmly. “You must be Robin. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”

“I’m just here to say farewell,” he said curtly. 

The baby was fast asleep, clenching the corner of the blanket. A tiny green band-aid wrapped around its thumb, but other than that, the baby was unscathed. 

Damian breathed a sigh of relief. He brushed his knuckle along its rosy cheeks, feeling the soft breath against his skin. The baby nuzzled closer. 

“I regret I couldn’t give you a name. But perhaps it’s for the better.” He blinked back the gentle sting in his eyes. “I cannot let my past dictate your tomorrow.” 

He turned. The longer he stuck around, the more it would’ve sunk in. 

“Come on,” Father said, leading Damian to the Batmobile. “Let’s go home.”

They didn’t end up going home. Instead, they got ice cream and found some nice gargoyles Downtown, because bats and gargoyles went together like gumballs and mass-produced character popsicles.

Father took a picture of his.

“What did you do that for?” Damian asked.

Father half-grunted, half-chuckled. “Superman’s eyes look like a chameleon.” 

“Like yours is any better.”

“I just need to be better than him.”

Their laughter settled into the kind of silence that prickled, but not enough to really bother Damian. Like he’d rather be somewhere else but didn’t want to move. 

Father said, “I have a question.”

“If it’s about the upstairs bathroom, Hood did it.”

“Good to know, but that’s not what I meant.” Father set his popsicle aside. “I’ve been thinking about it and wondering… why do you want to grow up so badly?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Damian replied. “Childhood is a meaningless construct designed to keep people unaware.” 

“If it’s meaningless, why did you break that baby out?” 

“Why do you keep me here instead of returning me to the League of Assassins? Because villains don’t deserve to procreate.”

“Yes, but I also wanted you to have a normal childhood,” Father said. “Deep down, you don’t think it’s meaningless. You wanted to give that baby a chance.” 

“So what if I do?” said Damian, biting off a gumball. “Why does it matter? We all grow up regardless.”

“That’s true,” Father said, “but you don’t want to grow up too fast.”

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me.” He placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I’ve been there. Losing my parents shattered my entire world and I wish I lived in a time where I wasn’t told to just deal with it and grow up.” 

“What then, you expect me to be the one to break the cycle? You couldn’t do that with my siblings?” Damian asked, though there wasn’t any malice behind it.

“Not break it—you've already gone through so much.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I just think you could slow it down a little. You’re only twelve once.”

“And a half,” Damian added.

Father chuckled. “Time flies.”

Damian swung his legs back and forth over the gargoyle’s wings. 

“I can try,” he said, “under two conditions.” 

“Shoot.”

He shot his grapple.

Father laughed. “Not what I meant.”

“I know,” Damian replied, standing up. “First: on the field, you are to treat me as an equal. Robin is Batman’s partner, not a mere sidekick.”

“You have my word. And the second?”

“Second,” he said, “I won’t be forced into activities for the sake of acting my age. It may not be what you picture, but I want to live my childhood on my terms.”

“Consider it done.” 

“Good.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And before you tell anyone what happened, I’ll have you know I’m a lethal shot with a paper airplane.” 

Father nodded, trying to mask his amusement with a solemn expression. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Smiling, Damian flipped his hood up and swung into the night.