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The first thought which enters Damian’s mind when he gets the call, when he hears Jason’s—no, Shrike’s voice filtering through his ears, staticky and boyish and panicked in the way only 15-year-old vigilantes can be, is: Drake isn’t very good at staying dead.
His second thought, which immediately follows the first, is: Cào.
He doesn’t think after that. He is Damian Wayne, son of the Bat, Kestrel, estranged grandson of the Demon’s Head, and all of the other woefully horrible titles which have been bestowed upon him. He doesn’t think because he acts.
“Shrike. Report.” He says evenly, sounding more steady than he actually feels, as he pulls on his vigilante uniform. His suit is red and black and, in the darkness, he knows it’s glowing an unnatural maroon hue.
“It’s the Red Hood. It’s him. He’s—he’s—and B’s gone to save him, and—and we need you here now.”
His little brother sounds afraid. It’s jarring to hear. Jason has always been more like Tim’s Shrike than Damian’s. Damian was constantly furious as Shrike; his hatred was putrid and rotted the linings of his stomach as he was caught between two conflicting worlds. He had created Shrike as a way to cope with his prepubescent turmoil.
And hadn’t that ended terribly?
Tim’s Shrike was his complete opposite: calm and level-headed. He was steel clothed in silk, gentle when it mattered and sturdy when needed. He reinvented the Shrike mantle in a way which proved him to be the superior of the two, and it had rankled Damian to no end. The average Gothamite could never envision Damian’s Shrike extending a helping hand to a weeping woman. In contrast, Tim’s Shrike became a symbol of hope for the lost and unsettled peoples of Gotham. He was kind to a fault.
And then he died.
Tim’s death proved to Damian that there was no correct way to be Shrike, because the owner of the mantle would suffer either way. Jason’s Shrike was mischievous yet reliable. He was kinder than Damian to the civilians and sharper than Tim to the villains. Damian always thought Tim would have liked Jason, had he lived.
But Tim—
Tim—
His swords do not tremble in his grip because Damian has never shivered in his life. But it’s a near thing.
“Shrike, I am on my way. ETA 20 minutes.” He speaks again, his voice calm and deep. He can tell his impeccable control is paying off, because Jason is calmer when he mutters an affirmative response.
“Stay out of the way. Let Batman deal with this, do you understand.” It’s not phrased as a question. It’s an order and he knows Jason will follow it, because there is no room for leeway in Damian’s firm tone. He hangs up abruptly, cutting off Jason’s hasty farewell, and makes his way to his motorcycle. He takes a deep breath, and then he takes another ten for good measure.
“Penny-One.” He taps into the comms. “This is Kestrel. I am en route to Batman’s location.” And then he speeds through Bludhaven like a bat out of hell.
He hopes he’s not too late.
He doesn’t find Batman upon arrival, but he does find Red Hood.
His helmet is strange, black and bright red with curved ears. For some inexplicable reason, it reminds Damian of Arkham.
“Kestrel.” Comes the distorted, modulated voice from the helmet. Red Hood is very tall – Damian has to raise his eyes to look up at him and he rarely does that – and lean. He’s muscular but he doesn’t share the impressive hulking figure of the Waynes.
“Little Red Riding Hood,” Damian bites out before he can stop himself. “You are a long way from home.”
What is he doing? Why can’t he be charming like Jason, or civil like Duke? Why does he have to resort to barbed threats and veiled insults?
“I think you’ll find that I’m right at home, actually. Gotham belonged to me first.” Red Hood sounds amused and calmer than Damian was expecting, but he’s not blind. He can see the other man’s fingers twitching around his guns.
Damian tuts sharply in lieu of an actual answer. It’s a childhood tick of his. He’s studying Red Hood intently with his gaze, which is why he doesn’t miss the near-imperceptible flinch.
“Are you going to stare at me all day?” Red Hood speaks up again, sounding less amused and more irate. It’s worrisome, how quickly his mood changes.
Damian shakes his head firmly.
“Red Hood,” He starts evenly but the words get stuck in his throat. It’s strange. Damian Wayne – because he hasn’t been Damian al Ghul for a long time now – is never one to be tongue tied. Today is a day of firsts and he hates it.
Damian is a lot like his father. He’s never been good at expressing himself verbally. His actions speak louder than his words. So, he lets his fists do the talking.
They dance around each other, exchanging blows. Red Hood’s guns do not waver and Damian’s swords do not falter. They’re evenly matched, which is both a surprise and an indication that Red Hood has League training. It sends a trickling feeling of unease down Damian’s spine, which is another oddity. The last time Damian had felt true unease had been on the eve of Tim Drake’s death.
What are the odds?
“Remove your helmet, Red,” He demands roughly, even though he’s in no position to be giving orders. In response, Red Hood chuckles, his synthetic voice ghastly enough to incite goosebumps.
“No. I don’t want the big, bad wolf to come eat me up. You’ll have to forgive this transgression,” And then Red Hood says something very strange. He calls Damian by a name he hasn’t been called in eight years. There is no feasible way for someone like him to know this name, unless—
“Jiāolóng,” Damian whispers, his red-and-black suit glimmering in the dark.
Red Hood flinches, loses control of his calm composure for a split second, and that’s all the opening Damian needs. He uses the sword in his left hand to stab his opponent in a vulnerable spot, aiming to maim and not kill, and uses his right hand to rip off the haunting helmet, ignoring the electric currants which travel up his arm in angry retaliation.
“Drake.” He speaks again, his voice hushed. The world is slowing down. He can barely hear himself, let alone anyone else. All he can fixate on is the face under the helmet.
Timothy Jackson Drake looks older and harsher. His nose is slightly crooked, as if it had been reset into place hastily after being broken. His hair is long and dark, falling onto his shoulders. A traitorous streak of white runs through his hair. And his eyes—the eyes are the worst.
His eyes are no longer the brilliant blue of the most beloved Shrike. His eyes are bright green, venomous and deadly.
Damian can hear something shattering. He can feel something shattering. Something is breaking in this very moment.
What is it? Where is it? Who is it?
And what surprises them both is the plea that escapes Damian’s lips.
“Come back.” He phrases it as an order, when it’s truly a request. Tim’s luminous green eyes widen for a split second, and then he scowls ferociously.
“I am home,” Tim says airily, though it clearly takes great effort for him to sound so unbothered. “I’m here to save my home, from the likes of you.”
Damian feels like venom has been injected into his veins. For the first time in his life, he feels paralysed, shell-shocked, and uncomprehending.
“Come home.” He demands this time, because Damian has only ever known how to command. But Tim, who had previously only ever known to follow orders, shakes his head in defiance.
“Don’t follow me. Or I’ll kill Shrike and deliver his corpse to your doorstep.” And with that chilling threat, Timothy Jackson Drake stalks off into the night, leaving his helmet discarded and broken.
Damian remains in the same position for hours, his lips pursed and his fingers clenched, until the early morning dawn breaks through the sky and the stubborn maroon glow of his suit fades in the sunlight. It is only when the people of Gotham begin to rise that he moves, slowly and mechanically, towards his motorcycle. He appoints the coordinates like clockwork and drives off with great intensity, taking a route that he knows by heart.
"Penny-One, this is Kestrel. I am returning to HQ. Red Hood is still at large.”