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The first thing that registers in Damian’s dazed and disoriented mind is– pain.
He lets out a muffled moan as he sits up. Damian blinks, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It takes him a moment to manage to stagger upright, clutching at his head in confusion as it spins, sending him back down, propped on one knee. Slowly, his vision begins to clear at last, and he stands again, stumbling forward, the room bathed in utter darkness.
He takes one, two steps, legs shaky, and then– then his foot bumps into something, and he tumbles down again with a choked yelp.
Damian whimpers. He groans as he holds his pounding head in his gloved hands, and even if it’s dark, white, hot-searing pain dances across his vision. He tries to swallow down the nausea that threatens to rise in his throat, his stomach churning with each movement as he brings himself on all fours, bringing a tentative hand forward to touch the obstacle that had tripped him.
Gloved fingers drag across– the fabric, that’s fabric.
That’s– kevlar.
Damian’s heart skips a beat. A shaky hand instinctively raises to activate the night visor installed in his domino– he’d forgotten about it, he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know why.
The incessant throbbing in his temples makes it difficult to concentrate, and he can feel his body becoming weaker with each passing moment, taking a few, tentative breaths to quell the nausea.
He blinks again, and finally, the obstacle comes into view.
Panic instantly grips his chest as his gaze focuses on Dick’s unconscious, sprawled form.
“Gr– Nightwing.” Damian calls, voice barely above a whisper. He places a firm hand on this eldest brother’s shoulder, and shakes him lightly– to no avail.
Damian curses under his breath and immediately scans the area, searching for any signs of life.
And then he sees them. Fear overwhelms him as he sees two bodies– Jason’s and Tim’s. Adrenaline courses through his veins so violently that his head swims even more aggressively, Damian bracing himself on all fours again, blinking hard as he wills the dizziness away with a few staggering, shallow breaths.
His little heart pounds as he drags himself towards his other brothers, all lying motionless on the ground– Tim’s on his back, Jason’s on his side, curled up. His breath catches in his throat as he rushes to their sides as much as his quivering limbs allow him to, mind racing with fear and panic.
He can’t– Damian can’t remember.
His memories are hazy.
He doesn’t remember going out on a mission, and he surely doesn’t remember being with all of his brothers simultaneously. Dick had been in Blüdhaven for the past two consecutive months– he’d visited only once, about a week prior, just to check on Cassandra who’d gotten injured. Nothing life-threatening, but Dick had wanted to be sure, as usual.
And Jason– Jason doesn’t particularly enjoy patrolling with them, not unless there’s an emergency or something that requires his immediate attention. Damian tries to recall the last time he’d seen him, and realises that it had been a good month at least.
That only leaves Tim, who’d been busy in San Francisco– he seldom visits the Manor, but Damian thinks he remembers being with him the previous night, down at the Cave.
He and Tim– they’d been working on something. Damian’s head spins. They’d been working on tracking down some major criminals after a massive Arkham breakout, he thinks, they’d been tracking down– someone, someone he can’t remember.
He grabs at his head, blinking hard.
“Get a grip, Damian.” he mutters to himself, eyes still closed.
And then– then a choked gasp rips through the air. Damian’s head snaps up.
He rapidly crosses the distance between him and Tim, as the latter starts thrashing and convulsing on the ground.
“Drake!” he yelps, disregarding protocol as Tim seizes before his eyes, body jerking uncontrollably. Damian’s hands tremble as he moves Tim to lay on his side, struggling against the flailing limbs.
“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Damian chants, automatically, and before he can stop himself, he’s rubbing harshly up and down Tim’s quaking spine. He moves to press the distress beacon in his pocket– and it’s not there.
Damian frowns. He always keeps it there. Not losing another second, he moves to search for Tim’s, and after patting down his whole body, checking the heels of his boots and every crook in his brother’s costume, he finds none.
The seizure doesn’t abate, and Damian grows desperate, shooting to his feet blindly as he makes a move and falls to his knees beside Jason and–
He’s bleeding. Jason is bleeding.
Coppery crimson stains Damian’s uniform, hands shaking violently as he tries to apply pressure to the gaping wound on his brother’s side.
“Todd? Todd!” The sight of Jason’s pale, clammy skin and rolling eyes makes Damian’s stomach knot uncomfortably.
Then Damian blinks.
Grayson.
He’d forgotten about–
Damian instantly turns his attention to Dick, and gasps at the sight of the head wound that oozes blood onto the ground, dripping steadily. His pupils rapidly dart from Jason to Tim to Dick, over and over until the room starts to spin faster.
Carefully, Damian moves Dick’s thick, corvine hair out of the way, trying to inspect the wound to know just what he’s dealing with, desperately trying to keep him still and calm– he blinks.
When..?
When had he moved there?
Damian shakes.
This is–
Something’s wrong.
Helplessness and fear wash over him, an agonising, violent sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach as he scrambles backwards, his own blood-tinted hands clutched tightly against his heaving chest.
“H-help.” Damian mutters, eyes unblinking.
Then, again, “Help, s-someone help them!” voice raw with desperation. “P-please, someone help us! Father, please!”
Frantically, Damian stands, vision swimming as black and white dots dance across his vision.
He moves from brother to brother, trying to shake them awake, to will them back to consciousness– yet, they remain unresponsive, and Damian’s chest seizes as he realises that their bodies are growing colder by the second.
Tears well in Damian’s eyes. He’s– he’s alone, with no useful medical supplies available, with no way of contacting anyone.
He doesn’t even know where they are nor why they’re there.
He clutches at his chest, gripping at the shirt above his heart as he tries to catch his breath. The walls are closing in, sweat dripping steadily from his forehead, eyes wide behind the domino, hands trembling uncontrollably as Damian struggles to inhale. He chokes on a breath, sputters and coughs when a dry sob rips from his throat. His heart hurts.
He blinks and– his brothers are dead, they’re dead, lying lined up in oak caskets, with a traditional satin finish, dressed in tailored suits, their hair combed, skin upsettingly pristine, porcelain-like.
Damian gags. He’s– he’s wearing a suit too, standing on the grass under a grey, cloudy sky as he watches, motionless, the caskets being lowered into the ground.
“W-wait,” he calls, barely audible, voice raw, “pl-please, wait, they’re– wait, please, someone please–”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off violently, but then another one sets itself on the other shoulder, and one on his back– he moves, no, he’s being moved, and Damian kicks and screams and cries when the hands don’t leave despite his efforts.
“Pl-please, stop, stop it, unhand me, please, they’re my– my brothers, you can’t–”
Fingers card through his hair.
“...kay, you’re going to be okay. Just breathe, Dami…”
A gloved hand pats his cheek insistently.
“...another dose, hold him…”
A sharp prick in his thigh.
“...Scarecrow six feet under, if it’s the last thing I…”
Something cold floods through his veins and Damian gives a full-body shudder, emitting a low, pained moan as he chokes back on a sob.
“Pl’se, pl’se…”
“Damian. Damian, listen–” that’s Dick’s voice, but how, how can he be–
“You got dosed with Scarecrow’s toxin, but we’re handling it, okay? You’re going to be okay, I promise, kiddo. I promise.” Dick sounds– frantic. “Stay with us now, alright? Stay awake.”
Damian blinks, and the faces of his brothers– dead, they’re all dead, they’re dead– slowly come into focus, blurry. He whimpers.
Two fingers press under his jaw, then to the wrist that doesn’t itch.
“Fuck, fuck, he’s about to–”
Damian’s muscles lock up, eyes rolling back as he starts to seize.
Jason curses. “I told you. Fuck.”
“This is the fifth one, we need to get him to a hospital.” Tim shakes, keeping Damian on his side as the kid spasms and sputters.
Dick flicks his middle finger against the barrel of the autoinjector before he plunges it into Damian’s tight, keeping it still with the aid of Jason.
“If he doesn’t get better with this third dose, then we’re taking him.” Dick calls, voice firm– but his shaky hands tell a different story.
“He’s dying.” Tim half-seethes.
“He’s not.” Jason bits, scowling, “Pipsqueak’s gonna be just fine. He’s been through worse.”
The other blinks, shaken. “He’s had five seizures in under twenty minutes and has been hallucinating corpses, Jason, our corpses.”
“Enough.” Dick calls, low, still carding his trembling fingers through Damian’s matted hair. “He’s coming out of it. Time?”
“Fifty-five seconds. They’re getting shorter.” Jason calls, glancing at the timer in his helmet’s visor.
A nod. “B’s ETA?”
“Six minutes.” Tim mutters, checking his palmtop, “Dick, we need to call an ambulance, they can be here in half the time and–”
Damian groans. The others still.
“Dam–”
“Give the kid a second, Tim.” Jason calls, voice gentle.
Damian doesn’t really come to, but he blinks once, twice, and his brothers are all under the impression that there’s a glint of coherence in his eyes, the domino long gone.They wait quietly for Damian to get a hold of his senses.
“M’head.” the youngest groans.
Dick coos, resuming the soothing movements. “You with us?”
A nod, weak. “Y’re okay?” Damian asks, chest heaving again.
Dick, Jason and Tim all smile– although, Jason’s relieved grin is hidden under the helmet.
“We’re unarmed.” Tim calls.
“Yeah,” Jason follows, “not a hair out of place, pipsqueak. Try to breathe for us.”
Damian nods. The revving of an engine is the last thing he distantly hears before drifting.