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Chapter Text

NAME: RICHARD ‘DICK’ JOHN GRAYSON

GENDER: FEMALE MALE
BIRTHDATE: 20 MARCH
APPEARANCE: RAVENETTE, SHINY BLUE EYE COLOR

STATUS: ALIVE

INFORMATION: TAKEN 19 DECEMBER, GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. CURRENTLY IN BELARUS, RUSSIA WITH OTHER SUBJECTS, UNHARMED AND HEALTHY. WILL START TRAINING AS SOON AS SUBJECT IS CONSCIOUS.

A CRUISE IN SIBERIA, RUSSIA. THE PRESENT. 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He stands, leaning against the sink of the bathroom. His fingers dig into the porcelain, shaking slightly. 

He looks up in the mirror, his face shifts and blurs until it settles on what he hopes is true. Scanning his face, something deep and ugly settles in his stomach.

Wavy black hair that’s cut unevenly and with a knife that was definitely not made for cutting hair, piercing blue eyes that have become dull over time, and a scar leading up from his jaw to his cheek. Another one across his eyebrow.

He looks away from the mirror, staring at the porcelain of the sink instead. He lets out a breath and quickly turns on the sink, washing his hands and face thoroughly with soap. 

The water’s cold. So cold. His fingertips turn red, so does his nose. The water turns red too. The soap absorbs the blood on his hands, the water washes it away.

Light red, sort of pink-ish, water is left to be drained in the sink. He grabs a paper towel and quickly wipes his face before his hands. The paper towel has a pinkish-red tint on it. He throws it away.

He wipes under his eyes with the back of his hand before grabbing a small black phone he left on the sink’s counter. 

The phone is severely outdated, a burner phone. But it projects a live video feed of the inside of one of his safehouses in Belarus, Russia.

It shows agents breaking into the building with guns and black suits, making their way up to his personal room in the building. He activates the volume.

“The Widow occupying this building is severely dangerous. Do not engage without your unit. The Widow is deadly and will kill under any means to escape. Approach with caution. Make an example out of him. No one leaves the Red Room.”

He almost feels flattered. But the feeling of annoyance overpowers flattery, he bites his tongue and swipes out of the feed. He dials the number he already had saved, it rings.

After around 4 rings, the line picks up with a click. A man answers. “Gray Son.” They speak, he almost scoffs, he bites his tongue harder instead and shoves that feeling down.

“Don’t do this.” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. 

“Do what?”

“Come after me,” He huffs, allowing himself to have slight annoyance in his tone slip through. “I mean, you’re embarrassing yourself. You look desperate.”

He sets the call on speaker as he grabs his black hoodie from the sink’s counter and begins putting it back on. “Thought you’d be calling to cut a deal. Plead incompetence instead of disobedience.”

“I’m incompetent? It’s been two months since you’ve sent your best agents to kill me and you still haven’t found me.”

“It’s only a matter of time before you come home to us, Gray Son. You are our Magnum Opus. You are perfection. We’re your family, your home.”

“You shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble. You’re not my family. I’ve lived a lot of lives, never a true one with you and them though. I’m done.”

He picks up the phone again, his hoodie now on and warm. Although his hands are still cold, the tremors have stopped. He hangs up the phone and goes back onto the feed.

“Gray Son!” The leader shouts, he almost smirks when he hears the anger the leader has because he hung up. 

The agents storm his personal room, and bust open his closet. His belt with the red hourglass marking of a Black Widow along with broken trackers are scattered on the floor of the open closet.

He shuts off the feed and walks out of the bathroom, walking towards the edge of the cruise ship. He avoids eye contact with anyone and keeps his eyes on the floor despite no one being near him.

His hoodie is black and cotton, his pants are stretchy and also black, but his shoes are some dark navy blue Converse. They’re beaten and dirtied, specks of blood on them.

He looks around before placing his arm on the cruise’s blockade. He looks over the fence to see the sea before gently pushing his phone over the edge. 

He hears the phone drop into the sea with a droplet noise and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

He wipes the blood off his shoes with his sleeve and begins to walk to his room on the cruise.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA. THE PAST, 1 YEAR AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

“Position secured. Nine, eight, ten? Status report.”

Eight is strapped to a chair with ropes. Dirtied ropes, at that. Blood and dirt covers his suit, as well as his face. Eight doesn’t show anything other than blankness. 

“Nine speaking. I’ve got eyes on Eight. Eight is secure and at discussed location.”

“Ten speaking. I’ve got eyes on target. Currently waiting on signal.”

“Eight, on your signal.”

Once his fellow agents and his handler speak, he glances up at the hidden camera in the corner of the room. He tilts his head forward ever so slightly so only they can see.

Almost immediately, a man enters the room in a suit. Eight doesn’t look at the man’s face, he has no reason to. When the man presses a hand to his cheek, he doesn’t look up.

“Ты бы пошла за кругленькую сумму, Вдова.” The man sneers, jerking Eight’s head up to look at him. Eight stares at the floor despite the action. (“You’d go for a pretty penny, Widow.”)

“Может, продать тебя в какой-нибудь публичный дом.” The man continues to speak, and Eight doesn’t reply. (“Maybe sell you to some whore house.”)

“Ты красотка. Я люблю тестировать свой товар.” Eight looks up to meet the man in the eye finally, and the man smirks. (“You’re a pretty one. I like to test my merchandise.”)

“Ты думаешь, я красивая?” Eight speaks, his Russian is perfect. He had to understand the language or be beaten. Learn or die. (“You think I’m pretty?”)

The man smirks at finally getting a ruse out of Eight before Eight breaks free from the ropes. The man freezes and Eight uses this.

He leaps forward, pulling out his hidden knife from his thigh strap and stabs it into the man's stomach before twisting. 

Immediately, the man begins to gasp for air and choke. Eight simply pushes him to the floor before tapping his ear to activate his mic to the comms.

“Advancing towards package, eyes on target?”

“Ten speaking, eyes on target. Signal?”

“Fire on my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eight weaves through the hallways until he busts open the doors to the main room. Immediately, he’s ran at by guards and others. 

“Nine, I need backup!” He shouts, elbowing one guard in the face while he uses his other hand to stab into another guard’s head with his knife. 

Less than a moment later, a girl with brunette hair and brown eyes drops down. Nine’s dressed exactly like him. Black combat gear with boots, holsters, weapons, and the same red hourglass symbol on her belt.

She fights next to him, eliminating the guards. Blood covers both of their gear from the guards. “Go, Eight! I’ll cover you!” She shouts between stabs and slashes.

He nods quickly. “Ascending on package, Nine stood back to eliminate outliers.” He reports to the others on comms.

Pushing past the rest of the guards as they focused on Nine, his eyes narrowed at the man dressed in all white escaping out the back door. He quickly follows. 

Out the back door, the man in all white stands next to two guards on the dock as he converses with them about the shipment containers. 

His eyes narrow again before charging and focusing on the guard on the right. He stabs the man in the head before pushing the body into the water, off the docks.

The man in all white tries to flee again but Eight quickly throws a knife at his leg. He collapses and Eight focuses on the other guard, stabbing him in the neck.

“Ten, fire now!” Eight shouts into his comms as the man in all white tries to grab his own communicator to call for more guards. 

Immediately, the comm crackles open. “Yes, Sir.” Less than a second later, a shot rings out and the man in white stops moving. 

Blood and flesh splatters all over the dock, and some on Eight’s black combat boots. His nose scrunches up in distaste before he turns to the shipment containers. 

He smashes the lock on the container door and pulls it open. Light from the moon illuminates into the shipment container. 

Six girls no older than ten years old huddle up together. The only clothing they have on is rags. Eight’s stomach lurches. 

“Package received.”

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PAST, 6 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Bruce stares at the batcomputer. Facial Recognition, attempt 572 failed.

He grips the arms of the chair he’s sat in. “Again.” He demands; immediately, the batcomputer starts up again to run the facial recognition.

It’s been 6 whole months and 15 days since Dick left for the store and never came back. One hundred and ninety-seven days since he was pronounced missing.

Dick was pronounced missing exactly 24 hours after he left the manor on January 19th. After 6 months of no progress, Bruce involved the justice league.

15 days ago, Batman sent an emergency meeting alert to all of the League members. They showed up immediately, concerned why Batman would call a meeting because he never did unless it was highly important.

“Batman, are you okay? We came as soon as we got the alert.” Diana spoke. The rest of the league members stood around the table, looking at him.

Batman stood at the end of the table, his lips pursed and his gloved fingers digging into his covered palms. “I need your help.”

The league blinked in surprise, not really expecting those words to leave Batman’s mouth ever in their lives. They nod. 

“Of course, Batman. What do you need us to do?” Superman took the liberty of speaking for the rest of them. They all nod along with his words.

“Dick Grayson,” Batman spoke, his voice close to breaking. But he wouldn’t. “He’s missing. I need you to find him. Do whatever you need to. Search everywhere on the planet.”

The league spared glances with one another, until Green Lantern spoke. “Isn’t that Bruce Wayne’s kid? What’s that gotta do with us?”

The league’s heads snapped to look at Hal, while Batman simply grit his teeth. “Because I’m Bruce Wayne.” He hissed.

No one voiced complaints after that.

Bruce’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice. Clark, Superman, had came down to the Batcave and he didn’t notice. “Bruce.”

“Hn.”

“What’re you doing?” 

Bruce stood up from his chair to look over his shoulder at Clark. “Facial recognition. All over the globe.”

Clark sighed, walking towards him. “When’s the last time you slept? You should go to bed. The league and I are doing our best to search for him.”

“I’ll go to sleep when I find my son.” He hissed, ignoring Clark’s protests. The facial recognition is at 73%. “You should go, Clark.”

Clark frowns. He had confided in Bruce his true identity, so had Wonder Woman, although Wonder Woman’s identity wasn’t really a secret, after Bruce had shared his. 

The super-powered man curtly nodded before turning on his heel. He pauses. “This isn’t healthy, Bruce. Dick wouldn’t want this.” And with that, he left.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed at the screen and tried to pretend like Clark’s words didn’t sting. Scratch that, burn. It had burned. 

Like he had just spat acid fire onto Bruce with no remorse. Tried to pretend like his own eyes weren’t welling up with tears. He shuts his eyes.

A beep erupts from the computer and Bruce sits back down in his chair. He prays and prays for some sort of hope. He prays that it comes back conclusive. 

He blearily opens his eyes to look at the batcomputer, and his eyes turn fully blurry from the tears. A gut-wrenching sob rips from his throat.

Bruce hadn’t cried since the day his parents were shot in front of him. But here he is, weeping. He’s starting to believe the words on the batcomputer’s screen will be all that’s left of Dick Grayson.

Facial Recognition. Attempt 573. Failed. 

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PRESENT, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

They say Gotham is cursed.

He’s heard people speak about how you were stuck before you even realized. Gotham always draws her citizens back to her. Whether you realize it nor not.

He likes the legends and myths, whether they’re real or not. It gives him something to think about besides the red stained into his hands.

The cruise stopped at the docks of Gotham before it carried on. Considering he snuck himself on the ship in general with no ticket or room, he got off at the halfway city.

His hip burns, he acknowledges that as he walks off the cruise ship with a few others, blending in with the crowd. 

His tracker was located in his hip. Just above his hip bone. He had stabbed one of his knives where the tracker was approximately and dug it out with his fingers. 

He wrapped a stretchy bandage around both sides of his hips before discarding the tracker in his old safe house’s closet along with other broken trackers and his Widow belt that the other agents discovered.

That happened 2 months ago, yet they only discovered the belt and trackers yesterday. They’re weak without him. 

He was the best.

He was The Black Widow that the people around the world, especially in Russia, used to fear would come for them and their children.

“Hush now, dear child, don’t make a peep; For the Black Widows silently creep. Close your eyes, fear no dread, for in your dreams, they’re but tales unsaid.” 

Creepy. But as are Russian tales, no one bats an eye at them. He thinks Americans are rather sensitive. 

Was he American? No. Was he once? Maybe. He isn’t sure. No, he can’t be. He’s Eight—No.. That’s not right. He’s Asset—No. No he’s not an asset anymore.

Fuck.

He shakes his head, wiping his eyes with his clean sleeve that doesn’t have blood specks on it. His scarred hands ball up into fists and grasp onto his hair.

He tugs until the realization of where he is sinks in. In America. In Gotham, New Jersey. In… Where is he?

He snaps his eyes open and looks around. He slowly breathes out, evening out his breathing to make his heartbeat slow down. 

He’s in a random store, in an aisle. He must’ve dissociated and his body led him to wherever he thought a burner phone would be. Although, it feels eerie. 

Get into a stealth position if you want to live, a voice rings out in the back of his head. It’s his instincts. He complies, ducking quickly behind one of the shelves.

Immediately, screaming begins. A gunshot rings out, and his regular person persona is gone. In its place, the ruthless assassin remains.

The Black Widow.

The Widow immediately assesses the environment. People smell of fear as a clearly inexperienced man holds a gun at a cashier.

The cashier seems rather uncomfortable than anything, no sense of fear or horror radiates off her than the others. 

She’s blonde, has dark blue eyes, and a random uniform from the store. “God damnit, I told Bruce something bad would happen. I told him.”

The Widow disregards whatever the cashier mutters, ‘Stephanie,’ her name tag reads. Widow quickly shoves the hoodie over his head before running up.

The Widow kicks the gun out of the man’s hand. Suddenly, all eyes in the store are on him, and he feels like a regular Black Widow again. 

Like a graceful ballet dance, the Widow dodges any feeble attempts at the man trying to hit him, and instead drops down in a position to swipe his legs.

The man falls and the Widow narrows his eyes at him. He punches the man quickly, knocking him out before standing. 

The cashier has a look of admiration, shock, and confusion on her face running all at once. The Widow doesn’t blame her. 

“Thank- Thank you?” Stephanie, the cashier, stammers out. The Widow is glad for his quick thinking for the hoodie covering his face.

He tilts his head slightly to the side before speaking. “Call the police.” He says, a deep Gotham accent that feels all too natural, before turning on his heel to leave.

“Wait! The police—they’ll need a statement!” The blonde shouts, making him pause. He turns to look at her over his shoulder.

“There’s 20 people in this store, not counting me or you. I’m sure they’ll be enough.” He lists off. The cashier looks nervous.

“Who—Who are you?” She asks, maybe as a desperate attempt of having him stay or thanking him again.

But the question makes him pause. Who is he?

He was perfection. He was The Red Room’s. He was Eight. He was The Silent Death. He was Asset. He was the Gray Son. He is—was, the Black Widow.

Then, he was nothing.

“Nightwing.” He says instead.

BELARUS, RUSSIA. THE RED ROOM ACADEMY. THE PAST, 2 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been here. 

Maybe in a past life he would’ve enjoyed this. This being ballet; he twists and turns, his limbs conforming into flexible positions.

They gave him pointe shoes, told him to dance, and told him to survive. 

There’s many like him. All dressed in leotards and small shorts. A class of twenty eight so-called ‘sparrows.’  

Sparrows. A term used for younger, less experienced, cadets a prelude to becoming a fully fledged Assassin. 

They say once they’ve decided who is the most worthy of the honor, they will begin “The experiment.” 

He isn’t sure what “The Experiment” is. What he does know is that he cannot be anything less than perfection.

They take away your name, if you even had one. They assign you numbers instead. Of Unit 1227, they say he is Cadet ‘Eight.’

(He feels like that has a meaning to it, but when he tries to remember, his brain becomes fuzzy and begins to ache.)

In his first week of ballet class, he stumbles over his steps and receives a harsh slap. He doesn’t cry. He’s seen what happens to those who do.

Once during language class, a girl mispronounced a word in Greek. She was backhanded and began to cry onto the floor. 

The teacher stared at her in disgust. Before anyone could react, the woman pulled out a gun and shot her point blank in the head and chest.

The crying girl fell limp, a haunted look on her face was all that was left of her. No one dared to make a noise, rapidly trying to continue speaking Greek properly.

That night, the girls are handcuffed to their metal beds like always, but once their teacher leaves, they desperately try to avoid sleep.

There’s twenty eight beds in the room. Each one has a label. It says your number. Only twenty-seven girls accompanied their beds that night. 

When most girls succumb to sleep, they awake gasping and suppressing tears. They all look at each other in understanding.

They have all dreamt of the Greek speaking girl.

(He hasn’t. He never slept that night. But he didn’t think too much of the Greek speaking girl either. Numb, he felt.)

The next morning, their teacher, Madame Karpova, eyes them all during breakfast. She hands them unsharpened knives and tells them to whet them or they would go hungry. 

They could use whatever in the dining room they’d like, as long as they never broke anything. Each girl glances at each other.

He simply flips his glass plate over, angling his knife to scrape onto his glass plate. It sharpens perfectly. Ignoring the looks he gets, he walks up to Madame Karpova and shows her the knife.

(It feels familiar for a moment. Then that feeling is gone too.)

Madame Karpova had been watching him since he flipped over his plate. Silently, and with a sickly grin, she hands him another knife. This time, it’s sharpened.

He looks at her with a tilted head. “Возьми нож, Восьмой.” She says. “Изучать. У вас есть потенциал..” (“Take the knife, Eight.” “Study. You have potential.”)

He isn’t sure what she means by that, he simply nods and grabs the knife before turning on his heel to grab breakfast. Madame Karpova’s eyes burn into the back of his head.

He hears whispers of the knife wielding spider that day in the hallways. The older girls whisper words of “prodigy,” and “potential.”

He’s watched more closely from then on. 

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PAST, 9 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Jason Todd is a nobody.

The streets are filled with bustling kids with their parents. Painted faces, costumes, kids laughing, candy wrappers on the floor. 

Jason hisses in disgust when a king size Reese’s peanut butter cup wrapper hits his cheek. With a huff, he shoves it off. 

The air smells of chocolate sickness. The air is freezing cold. Jason shoves his red hoodie, that happens to have a few holes in it, over his black hair.

He blows a strand of his hair out of his blue eyes and continues down the street, running. He pants, almost tripping over his shoes.

He didn’t really lie, he is a nobody.

Living in Crime Alley, you had to get creative for money. He was a thief. A pretty damn good one at that too.

No one suspected a child to be responsible for stealing the transmitter off your car. Much less a ten year old. 

He is Jason Todd. A ten year old thief that steals off cars and rich people. A boy with hair as black as the night, and blue eyes that hold storms in them.

But he is also Fucked.

It’s not his fault, okay? He was just going to steal some tires off some rich asshole’s car and then sell it for a few hundred dollars.

How was he supposed to know the rich fucker was apart of something sketchy?

Usually, Robin would pop into Crime Alley often and protect the children. He was saved by Robin once.

A group of thugs decided Jason looked like an easy target when he was nine, and tried to steal whatever was on him.

(Not like they would’ve got anything off him anyways. He was broke, and nine years old!)

Robin had swooped in, taking out the thugs before making sure Jason was alright. The starstruck Jason just stuttered out a ‘thanks.’

Robin had given him a gentle smile before nodding. “No problem.” The hero had said with a voice so gentle and soothing, Jason wasn’t sure he was talking to him, being a punk Crime Alley kid and all.

Robin was an angel. Because how could anyone look at Jason like that? With such care and gentleness? 

Later, when Jason was older, he decided Robin wasn’t an angel. Biblically accurate angels were too scary—not that he would admit that—to be Robin. He decided on something else instead.

Robin was magic.

But Robin was no more. 

Robin stopped appearing. He heard Crime Alley residents say the boy that once followed crime side by side with Batman was dead.

Jason refused to believe that. How could Robin be dead? Robin is magic. He’s sure of it. Robin was only gone temporarily.

But Robin is still gone. And no one’s here to protect Jason.

(He can protect himself, he swears! .. But it would be nice to have someone there for him.)

Jason continues to run, running into some random alley quickly. He ducks behind a dumpster with an ‘oof!’ and tries to slow down his breathing. 

His heart pounds as he listens to the people that were chasing him’s heavy footsteps fade into the distance. He lets out a silent sigh of relief.

He peeks out cautiously from behind the dumpster to ensure that the people chasing him are indeed gone before shutting his eyes and swallowing down his pounding nerves. He’s okay. He’s fine. Totally.. fine.. 

As he opens his eyes clearly, he freezes.

There, parked just a few feet away, was the Batmobile in all its glory. Sleek and elegant, clearly untouched, glory.

The tires were custom made. Bat symbols around the wheel. Customs like that have to be at least $300. And he could get immense respect from buyers if he stole the Batman’s tires.

Maybe he would get some tires to sell tonight, after all. 

Cautiously, Jason looks around the alleyway, scouting for a sighting of the Bat. When he finds none, he pulls out a wrench from his hoodie’s pocket and crouches over to the car.

‘Batman won’t miss just one tire..right?’ Jason thought to himself as he leans down, beginning to loosen the bolts of the tires.

He grins, rolling the tires down further into the alleyway to the left, where he knows leads out to an old warehouse no one goes in anymore because it was bombed by Scarecrow before. 

One tire down, three more to go.

Jason repeats the process, the thrill of the situation building up further as he successfully stole two more tires off the Batmobile.

He already has three tires, why not the whole set?

Although as he cockily tries to return for the last tire, he’s met with Batman himself staring at him. Jason freezes.

“Fuck.”

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PAST, 9 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Somewhere, a camera clicks. 

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PRESENT. 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

His skin is smooth and warm and inviting. Soft shaven skin. He feels like hot green tea sugar soft sweat. 

His skin is hot. A warmth that burns his face whenever he presses his cheek against his shoulder. 

The water is warm, scorching hot but in a comforting way that gives him goosebumps.

Soap spreads over his shaven legs, his thighs, his hips. He traces it, cupping the steaming hot bath-bomb stained water to drop on his body.

The water seeps into his skin, steam comes off his body from the contact. It burns in a good way. It’s warmth engulfs him.

He focuses on the scent that's marking and rightfully claiming the smell on his skin. He rubs his thighs together, eyes shut.

He goes under, letting the water encase his entire body with its depth. He holds his breath, letting the water string through his curly locs. 

He adjusts himself in the water before sitting up, letting out a breath of air. He opens his eyes dully, and listens. 

His hearing sharpens. He can hear everything in the apartment building. A woman arguing with her husband, kids laughing, a man’s snoring. 

He lifts his hand out of the water and his skin lets off steam in the cold air’s contact. He snaps his fingers once.

He snaps his fingers again, training his hearing on the noise. Again and again until the noises are gone and he can only hear silence and his fingers snapping.

He sets his hand on his thigh, but not before wincing. He looks down to see a scar, leading from the side of his knee to the side of his mid-thigh on his right leg.

Well that's a huge scar, he notes. 

Where did he get that one from? Fighting off agents in Slovakia? A mission? Training? A lesson?

From before he was death’s apprentice?

He decides to ignore it. He maps out the rest of the scars on his body in the green-ish bath bomb stained water. 

A scar across his left knee from a poisoned dagger. A jagged scar on his left tibia from a pocket knife. A small burn mark on the back of his right ankle.

A scar across his left hand from a throwing knife. A small cut on his right shoulder from a gunshot that grazed him. And a scar above his right hip from cutting out his tracker.

And that’s not counting the scars on his eyebrow and jaw on his face. 

The serum made sure major injuries were healed, but these injuries? His healing factor didn’t give two shits about them.

The Room had put him under and subjected him to many experiments, resulting in his heightened senses and healing factor. 

But it wasn’t much. Maybe minor enhanced strength? He barely looked over his file before.. 

Before he left.

He drains the water of the bath and steps out, not wanting to think about that anymore. He dries himself off and puts on some clothes before stepping out of his bathroom.

He hates bathrooms.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA. THE PAST, 2 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Eight sits in the dimly lit bathroom, licking the blood off his lower lip gingerly.

It tastes like bitter copper salt in wounds hard, and he hates it.

His body aches, a canvas of angry reds and upsetting purples. Tender and unforgiving. He gently tugs off his mission suit with practiced hands.

The air smells like sweat and blood. Like hard aching gritted teeth smoke. He didn’t make a noise. Not a wince, grunt, whine, or whisper.

Eight blankly stares at the cold, white tiled floor. His fingers trace over the bruises, it gives him a jolt of pain, but he basks in it.

He’s alive. He can feel.

They say Widows escape death like it's a game. The young dance around it precisely like the generation before them. 

One wrong move and you meet death herself. One wrong move and you are simply one death in a room of thousands. One wrong move and you discourage those before you. 

"Eat your young," They'd imagine their trainers whispering into their elders’ ears, when they'd trip and fall into death's arms.

All they've known is cruelty. Obey. Don't ask questions, simply comply.

The elders would rip the children from death's comforting arms and strip away anything and everything they've ever known.

Wipe their memories, restrain them. Set them down in that cold, blistering metal chair and whisper safety promises that you're bound to break.

Electricity will fill their bodies until only compliance is left. The only thing they know is how torture feels like as a child.

Because everything they've ever done is no longer useful. They, themselves, are no longer useful. They will certainly ask for death again. 

Eyes glazed over, dulled and full of nothing. Soulless things. Memories bleed into each other like the blood on their hands.

When did he start ballet? Which day did a girl trip and disappear? What day did their feet begin to bleed?

When did he learn how to shoot guns with the utmost efficiency, how to hold knives like his hands were crafted to wield them, how to fight.

Minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months turn into years.

The Russian winters are cold, harsh, it bites viciously into his fingertips and nose. His feet ache, it hurts to step, so they glide his fingers over the walls to help him limp.

The mantras his teachers repeat to him day after day engraves themselves into his memories. The line between dreams and reality slips through his fingers.

He is the Red Room’s soldier. 

He is an assassin.

He is nothing.

He pushes himself off the white tiled floor of the bathroom and collapses onto the sink with a sort of grace. 

He wets his face with the cold water harshly and steps out of the bathroom to meet his handler’s stoic face again. 

The bruises would fade.

They always did. 

(But it doesn’t mean they won’t leave a scar.)

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PAST, 17 DAYS BEFORE THE 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Robin is back.

The streets of Crime Alley realize this as soon as a shorter boy dressed in green, red, and yellow accompanies Batman to stop crimes again.

Some realize that this Robin is different after the disappearance, like a completely different person.

This Robin is shorter, his voice is higher, he has a Crime Alley accent even if he tries to hide it. This Robin patrols Crime Alley more than before.

This Robin is louder and could care less what Batman commands, he does whatever he likes in the name of Justice.

Some notice this. Some don’t care.

The streets of Gotham are finally safe now with Robin, whether it’s the old or the new. 

Criminals could care less, they hate this Robin as much as the last. Civilians don’t give much thought to it, a Robin is a Robin.

This Robin isn’t the first though. The first Robin was Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson-Wayne, the beloved prince of Gotham.

The new Robin is Jason Peter Todd, a street rat kid no one really likes who Bruce Wayne himself decided to take in like a stray.

Go to the cemetery, Jason. There lies your destiny.

“There’s one dead bird in the flock,” Jason tells himself in the mirror. “I won’t be next.”

There’s so many differences the two Robins have had, and Bruce knows this. He would never dare think of Jason less than Dick, but the similarities sting.

So as they stand on a random rooftop together, waiting for crime to spring up, they stay quiet. A silent understanding.

Dick Grayson was the Robin that could lead Batman out of his shell.

But Jason Todd was the Robin that made Batman smile in the cowl. 

And if Batman ruffled Robin’s hair when no one was looking like a proud father, no one had to know. 

But someone did know.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 1 JANUARY, 17 DAYS BEFORE THE 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE DISAPPEARANCE.

A camera makes a clicking noise again.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 1 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He has improved over the past few weeks.

He established a civilian identity for himself, Gray Sindock. He has a decent apartment, some clothes, and food.

He does his stretches in his room, not trusting himself to go to the gym around others. He doesn’t want others to see him and get suspicious.

Black Widows aren’t meant to be ignored, but then again, he isn’t a Black Widow anymore.

He gets to his feet and massages his shoulder as it aches. He did his stretches and workouts this morning before showering, his hair is still wet.

He puts on a white long sleeve shirt under a regular dark gray short sleeve and some random baggy black jeans. He grabs his beaten up converse and shoves them on.

Walking around Gotham is really inconvenient, and pretty annoying. He could use a motorcycle or something. Maybe he should cash in a favor. 

He nurtures the idea as he walks into his room with his untied shoes to grab a pack of gum. He pops the blue mint gum into his mouth, shoving the rest of the small pack into his pocket.

He chews on the gum quietly, blowing multiple bubbles and biting it to pop them, as he ties his shoes.

He stumbles over himself gracefully, tying one shoe in the air before taking a few steps towards the kitchen. He ties the other messily before grabbing his burner phone that he left on the counter.

He sprays himself with some random cologne he bought a few days ago, it smells like blue cool air salt water sunlight.

He blows a particularly large bubble, grabbing his house keys and looking through the contacts on his phone as he walks out of his apartment. 

He makes his way out of the building and taps a contact that says ‘favor #3.’ The phone rings and he presses it to his ear.

“Go for Lawton.” The phone crackles into his ear. He smirks.

“You miss me?” He breathes out a laugh, his voice shifting into a lower and more polished one.

The line is silent for a moment before the other person on the line speaks up. “Jumpin’ Spider?” 

He groans in annoyance, passing by multiple people in a hurry who could care less what he’s talking about. “I thought you’d forget that nickname.”

A few years ago, back when he was still the Red Room’s sick idea of perfection, the Room decided to lend him to Amanda Waller for a while to get her off the organization’s back.

They had offered their most skilled and perfect assassin, him, under the guise of ‘Redback Spider,’ one of the most poisonous spiders.

Amanda Waller had teamed him up with the suicide squad, and they were hesitant to accept him, because he was just seventeen at the time, but they did.

A machine, Katana said. A soldier, Deadshot huffed. A child, Harley stressed. The others were concerned but said nothing about a ruthless child assassin on the team.

He was strong, but he was nimble. His flexibility was almost like he was boneless. He had moved so gracefully, jumping like an acrobat in itself. 

(His head aches when he thinks about it.)

“Jumping Spider,” Harley had cooed one day during his daily stretches. He could care less what others called him, but then the others joined in.

He has had many names. None that were as fond as that one.

(That’s a lie.) 

(Is it?)

It stuck. 

Deadshot, the person on the other line, laughed lowly. “How could I? Waller never told us your name, only that you were a spider or somethin’.” 

His nose scrunches up at the other’s words. The organizations that he was tossed through by the Red Room never really bothered to give him a true name.

Just codenames and calling him anything dehumanizing like ‘Asset’ or something degrading. Like ‘bitch,’ or ‘whore.’

“Whatever,” he sighs. “That favor you owe me? I’m cashing it in.”

“What d’you need, kid?” Lawton sounds more bemused than anything.

“I need money, and a motorcycle preferably. But the money can’t be traced back to me, others will know where to find me.”

Lawton hums. “I heard about that. You escapin’ some Russian organization. You good, now, kid? I wasn’t given much info.” 

He laughs. “As good as an ex-child assassin, now a refugee, on the run can be, considering all factors.”

Deadshot makes a noise of acknowledgment, he can practically picture him narrowing his eyes in consideration.

“Glad you’re okay,” Lawton says slowly. “Tell me your bank account numbers, I’ll send money over. I’ll have the motorcycle delivered within a week.”

“You know my address?”

He can practically hear Lawton’s smirk. “Calm yourself, I won’t tell anyone else. You’re gettin’ sloppy, though. Might have to pay you a visit.”

He scoffs at both the nickname and Deadshot’s empty threats which sound more fond than his actual words.

“I have to go now,” Lawton speaks after a moment of comfortable silence. He almost frowns. Almost. “Feel free to call whenever. Got it, kid?”

He doesn’t huff, but he exhales, resigned. “Got it.. See you soon?”

“See ya, little spider.”

And before he can voice his complaints about the new nickname, Deadshot hangs up the phone and the line cuts.

He groans in minor annoyance because of course he would do that. It’s Deadshot. What did he expect?

He shoves his phone into his jeans’ pocket before continuing to make his way to a library he saw a few times on the way home from the store.

He keeps his head low and his eyes trained onto the floor, making sure he doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he walks.

He fluffs up his hair randomly as a nervous tick, like he doesn’t know what to use his hands for. It’s better than tugging your hair, a voice in his head supplies. 

The library is finally in his peripheral vision, mostly empty, save for the grinning woman with red hair and the dark-skinned younger boy she’s talking to.

He tentatively opens the library door, knocking his knuckles onto the door twice to catch the attention of the woman.

The younger boy’s head snaps to where he stands, and his eyes narrow. He feels unnatural under the younger’s judgemental gaze. He clears his throat.

“Uhm, hello? Is the library open?” He’s pleased when his voice comes out even and innocently, instead of his nervousness.

The red-haired woman gathers herself first, a pink hue tints her cheeks when she sees him. Her red hair falls neatly onto her shoulders, and she wears a fashionable sweater. 

Mid-twenties, he thinks. She blinks quickly and her lips tug up into a small smile. “Hello, yes. The library’s open, sorry.” She apologizes.

He nods his head curtly and fully steps into the library, his fingers messing with his jean’s pockets. Before he can say anything in return, she speaks up again. “Can I help you with anything?”

He shakes his head, a hesitant smile creeps onto his lips. “Ah, no thank you.” He dismisses hastily, fluffing up his hair nervously.

“I’m here if you need any help!” She assures, eyes glancing back over to the younger boy before back over to him. He nods and begins heading over to a random book aisle.

Looking around the book aisle he stepped in, his gaze focused on the ‘non-fiction’ label. He’s never really been the owner of anything.

He’s had owners himself. He’s been property, something to toss and pass around like a blunt at a frat boy’s party. 

He pulls out his burner phone again and frowns. No messages from anyone. Maybe he should get a more advanced phone.

As he mulls over that, he looks at some random books on the shelves. The Poet X, one reads. And he pulls it off the shelf, inspecting it. 

He was never one for reading. 

But a boy with jet-black locks, an icey-blue gaze, a sharp tongue, even sharper wit, and a personality carved with red, is. 

Was.

He takes the book off the shelf and goes to look for others, but as he turns to walk in a different direction, he bumps into a smaller frame.

The younger one from earlier.

The younger boy’s eyes widened in surprise. He has sleek black hair that’s perfectly combed, and striking dark green eyes.

The boy’s skin is darker, save for the lighter parts of his skin that are scars. He wears a cool-toned coat with black pants and some new white and black shoes. 

The boy’s books that he was carrying begins to fall onto the floor, but as an instinct, he reaches out and prevents the books from falling before he could even comprehend what has happened.

The younger boy blinks in surprise at his reflexes. He hands the boy his books gingerly before speaking up to apologize. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have expedient instincts.”

Now it’s his turn to blink in surprise. He lets out a little laugh, his fingers running over “The Poet X”’s cover.  “Um,” He says intelligently.

The boy stares at him unimpressed, practically waiting for him to elaborate. He glances anywhere other than the younger before puzzle pieces begin to connect in his head.

This is Damian Al Ghul Wayne.

Born in the League of Assassins, son of Talia Al Ghul and Bruce Wayne, or the Batman. The vigilante, Robin. The youngest of the Wayne family.

Heir to the Demon Head, he thinks as the boy’s withering gaze falls upon him again. It doesn’t fit. The boy seems more like an angry kitten.

He’s unsure how to proceed, so he simply gives the youngest Wayne a nod before ducking himself out of the way and continuing to a different book aisle. 

Awkwardly, he glances at the label of the isle. ‘Romance,’ to the left, ‘Fiction’ to the right. He goes to the right shelf. 

He runs his fingers over the spines of the books carefully before plucking out a colorful book, something about Greek mythology.

He pretends to look it over in his grasp, while his real focus is slowing down and evening out his heart beat. 

His heart rate is ever so slightly high, and he knows the youngest Wayne can tell. Assassin to assassin, how could he not?

He rolls back his shoulders to settle into a fake relaxed posture before stacking the Greek mythology book onto ‘The Poet X’ book.

He awkwardly moves out of the book aisle and up to the front desk where the red haired woman was. He immediately feels two sets of eyes on him.

He stares at the floor, eyes trained, before looking up at the woman. She has a kind smile, and she looks like a patient woman. 

“Hello! Will this be all?” She chirps kindly as he sets the two books he had grabbed onto the desk for her to scan.

Her customer service voice feels unlawfully natural. He nods curtly so he doesn’t seem rude, “Yes, thank you.”

“Do you have a library card?” She types a few things on her computer that sits on the desk before scanning the two books.

He shakes his head. “I was hoping to get one today.” His voice is soft and unwavering, hoping to set off a nice aura.

She grins in reply. “That’s great! First name?” She asks, typing quickly on her keyboard. She sounds awfully familiar for some reason. He can’t place it.

“Gray,” He says hastily.

Where does he know her from? 

“Last name?”

“Barbara Gordon?” He blurts out instead. The woman—Barbara—looks up, a look of surprise on her face, undertoned with a hint of suspicion that no one but him could sense.

“Excuse me?” She laughs nervously, her red strands unfurl on her shoulder. He flushes deeply.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I- um,” He says wisely, wanting to curl in on himself. “Sorry. I’m.. so sorry. Barbara Gordon’s your name right?”

She looks at him bemusedly, giving him a nod as she hastily glances over at Damian. Damian’s eyes are trained on him now more than ever.

He can practically feel the boy’s eyes burning holes into his back. Glaring daggers too, maybe. He flushes again. “Sorry. I thought I knew you from TV or something. You’re the commissioner’s daughter, right?”

She hums, nodding again. “Yes.” He tilts his head forward, still blushing from total embarrassment. “Didn’t know I was that recognizable. Anyways, your last name?”

He chews on his lower lip, he can feel the heat on his cheeks burn and stay there. “Sindock.” He replies briskly.

Barbara hums, typing on her computer again when he gives a proper answer. “ID?” She looks up to meet his eyes.

He fumbles, quickly going through his jeans’ back pocket and pulling out his ID to hand to her. She takes it before putting it under a scanner.

He was a spy. He was an assassin. It was light work to create a fake ID that’s immensely believable.

And maybe he went overboard on the fake background check, but who would know? It has to be realistic.

When it comes back confirming that it’s a real ID, she hands it back and he quickly pockets it. “If you don’t mind,” Barbara starts as she types.

He awkwardly rocks on the balls of his feet, humming. “How’d you get those scars on your face?” She continues. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just curious, of course.” She says quickly.

He gives her a genuine laugh. A lot of people ask that. His scars aren’t obvious or that visible, but if you were to stare at his face for long, it would be.

He’s said a lot of things, excuses, for this. A bar fight, a prison fight, basically anything else but the truth. Or whatever goes with his cover story.

Gotham’s a violent place. Muggings happen both day and night. It would be more believable if he were to get mugged.

Muggings. “Cats.” He says instead.

What the fuck? He flushes deeper, if that’s even humanly possible. Where did that come from?

Barbara simply looks at him, both amused and confused at the same time. Her eyebrow is raised but a small smile rests on her lips. “Cats?” She repeats slowly.

Fuck it. He can’t go back now. He swallows hard and nods, “Yeah. Um, specifically stray cats. Kittens. I foster stray kittens.”

That gets Damian’s attention. Although he stays silent to watch him, he can tell Damian’s interest of him has peaked instead of being suspicious of him.

Barbara looks slightly surprised at this but nods nonetheless. “I take in the ones no one wants from shelters or off the streets before rehoming them, but they can get violent at the vet from time to time.” He smiles awkwardly. 

He hopes it's enough. Thankfully, Barbara looks resigned and nods in understanding, tiredly. “Yeah, I understand. Damian over there takes in a lot of animals.” She gives Damian a pointed glare, but it’s more fond than anything.

“Damian?” He asks innocently, turning to where Barbara was looking. Damian narrows his eyes at him but he pretends not to notice.

“Oh, right. That’s Damian. He helps me around the library whenever his father is busy since I know their family.” She vaguely introduces him with a hand gesture.

He hums and nods, waving at Damian, who blinks startledly before hesitantly waving back. He assumes the boy isn’t used to people treating him regularly yet.

They treated him like a human weapon.

Maybe not even human.

“Gray Sindock, right?” He quickly looks over at Barbara and nods. She goes back to typing, asking him a few verification questions before handing him the new library card.

He raises an eyebrow. “No deposit?”

She lets out a small laugh. “You must be new to Gotham.”

He makes a show of curling in on himself slightly. “Is it that obvious?”

Barbara gives him a sympathetic smile and shakes his head. “No, it’s just—Gotham does things differently than other cities. Where are you from?”

He doesn’t pause. He doesn’t. He didn’t create a whole background for himself just for it to come crumbling down when he sees a Wayne.

Well, not really a Wayne. Barbara isn’t a Wayne. But she might as well be. She was Batgirl, pretty badass too. But The Joker injured her.

He made her paralyzed from the waist down. It didn’t stop her from helping the citizens of Gotham and Batman, though.

Damned that Joker to hell. 

(He doesn’t regret what he did.)

Barbara became Oracle, practically the world’s best hacker that even the Justice League thinks she is Batman’s AI.

“I was born in Gotham,” he blurts because he can’t seem to stop himself from talking these days.

 “But my parents and I moved to Russia when I was a freshly new teenager; I was there until I left Russia to come here last month.” He tries to salvage himself. 

Thankfully, Barbara doesn’t notice. “Gotham has a way of bringing her children back to her.” And isn’t that creepy? It reminds him of Russia. He disregards that thought quickly.

“Why’d you move here?” She asks kindly, but he can tell it’s more of a way to keep him from running away with his tail between his legs.

“Cheap rent.” He says before he can even comprehend it. Barbara shrugs, simply accepting that answer because it’s one of the most popular reasons people live in Gotham. 

His eyes glance around before landing on a brown box on her desk. ‘Hello Panda Chocolate. 32 bags!’ It reads.

Her eyes follow his gaze to the box and her eyes light up immediately. She reaches for the box and grabs it. “Would you like one?”

His eyes widen slightly and he hastily shakes his head. “No thank you. How much does it cost? I don’t have any money on me currently, but maybe I could come back later?”

(He’s lying. He has roughly $150 in his pocket right now.)

Now it’s her turn to shake her head. “Talking like a true Gothamite. But no, it’s free of charge. Please, take one.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t-“

She cuts him off before he could say anything else. “Please take one. Barely anyone comes to the library besides Damian and his family, anyway. It would be a shame if they were to go to waste.”

She backtracks quickly. “Unless you're allergic then that’s totally fine!”

Ah, the ‘ole guilt tripping tactic. He’s used this tactic before, and he could easily redirect it, but he fears he’s fallen victim to this one.

Resigned, he sighs and nods. “I’m not allergic. Thank you so much for the small snack bag.” He says kindly, and takes one of the small bags from the box, much to Barbara’s delight.

She beams brightly. “It’s my pleasure!” She chirps.

He nods. The small bag of panda chocolate cookies could easily be poisoned. He was taught not to eat any food he was given in case it was contaminated.

He isn’t sure if he was taught in the Red Room or..

Or from before.

But he was forced to eat slightly poisoned food everyday. To build resistance, tolerancy, they had whispered. He ate the food.

Poison doesn’t affect him anymore.

He gives Barbara a small, kind smile before tilting his head forward in respect. “I gotta go, it was lovely speaking to you.”

He picks up the books he checked out after checking that his library card, ID, and wallet are in his jeans’ pocket.  “It was nice talking to you!” Barbara says.

“You too.” He replies courteously before turning on his heel and making his way to the Library’s door to exit the building.

“Come back soon! See you?”

“See you, thanks!” 

And with that, he walks out. Chocolates and books in hand. 

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 1 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

“..I revoke my earlier statement. I will not maim him, Gordon.”

“Thanks, Dami.”

BELARUS, RUSSIA. THE RED ROOM ACADEMY. THE 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Everything is blurry. Hot. Heavy. Dizzying.

He blearily cracks his eyes open in a haze. Vertigo greets him as the world spins and head hurting lights blind him.

He tries to speak but it comes out as a warbling noise. It sounds like he’s gargling something.

His body feels like he’s in a bonfire—no, his body is the bonfire. He can’t feel his mouth, his lips, his tongue. It all feels numb.

His fingers twitch, trying to regain his feeling in it. He blinks slowly as the world spins faster with every blink.

He feels something at the back of his throat, bile, he assumes. He tries to sit up, he feels heavy and sloppy. 

A spike of hot, searing pain infiltrates his head when he tries to get up and he lets out an involuntary choked nose. 

Almost immediately as the noise gets out, cold, unforgiving hands are on him. Pushing him back down onto the metal table he awoke to laying down on.

They’re firm. Not harsh nor gentle, but firm. Firm is the only thing he can think of describing it. 

His mind is blank and he shuts his eyes tightly to help soothe the pain in his pounding head. The hands are still on him. 

The hands are on his face, wiping tears rapidly. A bit ruthless. Running over his body, ranging from checking his pulse to sticking needles in him.

A substance entering his blood stream in one needle, and his blood being taken in another needle. 

He lays back down.

His breathing is uneven and unpredictable, hasty. He tries to swallow the bile in the back of his throat. He lolls his head to the side drowsily.

He breathes through his mouth, increasingly getting faster and faster with every movement. Sweat makes his hair stick to his flushed face.

His hands feel clammy as they shake. He can feel dried up tears on his cheeks as he tries to scrunch up his nose. When was that?

He tries to open his eyes again but he hisses out in pain. There’s wires sticking into his skin. An IV, he assumes.

He tries to shakily reach up to take the IV out of his forearm before a large hand grabs his wrist. Who's grabbing him?

What happened? Why is he here? What’s going on?

Panic flares in his stomach. Voices talk around him, but his ears ring violently. He tries to tune into the voices but to no avail.

He tugs on his wrist being held by the hand, and the hand falters. Oh. Oh it must be Bruce. 

He must’ve gotten horribly sick on patrol as Robin. He’s in the cave medbay. Bruce is here. He must be okay.

“.. ‘ruce?” He manages to get out through a sniffle. The hand freezes and the voices immediately go silent. His tongue still feels funny.

His lips tug down as he tries to regain control of his mouth. It feels weird. “..’ad?” He tries again. Bruce always melted whenever he called him ‘dad’ in rare moments like these.

The hand pulls away and the room is entirely silent still. No. Not Bruce, then. It must be Alfred. Alfred never responded to ‘Dad,’ but he was still kind.

Kind enough to take care of him. It must be Alfred then. Definitely. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfie. Alfie. Al.

“Alfr’d?” He tries messily. His words are mushed together like he’s drunk. He’s never drank before. Is this what it feels like? To drink? To be drunk?

He wants to giggle at the thought but his head throbs and he lets out a whine. The voices begin to speak again and he isn’t sure what to think.

“…wiping him when…gets a memory…… you’ll kill him.”

Who are they talking about?

 He can barely make out a few words. 

“..matter? There’s no…...to try.”

“We could… remake memories… reform them.”

“……possible?…memories into new…”

“Affirmative…psychological control…conditioning….”

“……test subject…approved.”

He barely has time to register what the voices are saying before someone pulls back his hair and he flinches violently.

He gasps, his lips parting involuntarily and pills are shoved down his throat. He swallows as a reflex and gags harshly.

He can see black spots invading his vision and he heaves, trying to thrash, but hands hold him down. He screams between breaths but to no avail.

this isnt bruce this isnt bruce this isnt bruce this isnt dad dad? dad dad dad dad alfred alfie al al al al alfie alfred wheres dad not here dad?

I miss my dad.

He gasps as a jolt of burning hot red liquid flash invades his body. hot pain pain hot hot red red help me  pain pain pain pain pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN silence.

The Asset stills.

Whose ‘Dad’?

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 27 APRIL, 1 YEAR AND 3 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

“Dad!” Jason shouts.

Bruce gives Jason an unimpressed look, as if to say ‘really?’ Jason glares back instead of dignifying him a response. Bruce sighs. 

“Do I really have to wear this uncomfortable suit? The gala’s gonna last hours! I’ll die in this tuxedo.” Jason groans.

Bruce winces at the implication of Jason dying, and he immediately shuts up. He gives Bruce an apologetic look. “It’s fine, Jaylad. But yes, you have to.”

Jason quickly recovers and goes back to complaining. “But why?”

“It’s a gala honoring you, my son. We got to look presentable.” Bruce explains, placing a kiss on Jason’s forehead.

Jason leans into his father but says nothing, puffing up his chest to seem more ‘manly.’ Bruce just laughs.

Bruce officially adopted Jason. They decided to host a gala announcing the new adoption of Gotham’s new prince.

(No one dares mention the first prince of Gotham.)

“Ready?” He asks, carefully looking over Jason. The boy’s suit is black and neatly pressed, courtesy of Alfred. Jason nods.

They step out of the car when Alfred opens the door and they’re met with the blinding flash of paparazzi cameras.

Bruce holds onto his son tightly.

The night goes on without a hitch, people gather around both Bruce and Jason. Bruce’s ‘Brucie’ persona is in full play, and Jason doesn’t leave his father’s side. 

Everyone will dig their knees into the floors to grasp their hands together and press it to their heads. To pray the new Prince of Gotham will not turn out like the first.

They look at Jason like he’s an enigma. Like he’s something else.

Like he’s someone else. 

Jason is interrupted in his thoughts by his father nudging him. “Jason, meet Tim Drake. He’s around your age and I’m thinking of making a business deal with his parents.”

The boy in question, Tim Drake, looks timid. The boy is dressed as he is, but he’s more closed off and his hair is covered in gel to keep it like it is.

The boy’s hair is black, not as dark as his, but still dark. His blue eyes are brighter than Jason’s though. He’s surprised Bruce hasn’t tried to adopt him too, yet.

“Hi. ‘m Jason.” Jason speaks, eyes trained on the Drake boy, who nods curtly. “How old are you?” The boy hesitates before muttering something under his breath which Jason doesn’t understand. “Huh?”

“Eight.” Tim squeaks out. Jason blinks.

“Nice ‘ta meet you, Tim.” 

Tim nods, a bit flushed. Bruce and the Drakes are still talking business a few feet away, and Jason couldn’t be more uninterested than he is.

He looks over at Tim again, who seems close to fainting. Jason’s eyes narrow at the boy. “You doin’ okay?”

Tim immediately nods. “Yes, thank you.” Jeez, this kid even talks like a Drake. Which.. he is. Jason isn’t sure what he meant by that.

“Want food?” He asks. Tim looks hopeful for a moment, a spark of hope in his eyes before returning to normal. He shakes his head but Jason can see past it.

“Nope. Too bad, Timmy. Let’s get you a sandwich. Gotta seem like we’re talkin’ business, y’know?” Jason pulls an arm around the shorter one.

Tim practically melted into the touch.

Jason, more encouraged, leads him to the food stands and allows him to get food under the cover of “it’s for business,” and Tim seems content with that.

Around two hours later, Tim’s parents finally call him over. “Timothy, honey!” He hears Janet’s voice call. Tim perks up at the sound of his mother’s voice.

And Jason.. Jason pauses.

He doesn’t like the Drakes.

From what he’s seen from Tim, they barely acknowledge he’s fucking there. They’re always on trips to god knows where, and as Jason’s newly learned, they leave Tim home.

Jason makes a small note, more of a reminder, to himself to visit the Drake’s manor to see Tim more often. He can’t leave the boy alone in the manor.

Tim slides off the chair with precision and scampers to his parents' side. Jason follows suit. Bruce smiles softly at Jason while Janet’s sharp nails card through Tim’s hair harshly. 

To anyone else, it would be a loving touch. But Jason is Robin. He knows what signs of abuse and neglect are. He’s a street kid, not stupid.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I’m sure this is the start of a wonderful business partnership.” Jack Drake speaks, a porcelain fake smile on his face.

Jason wants to punch him.

Bruce, sensing Jason’s tension, gives him a quick glance before returning the same tight-lipped fake smile back to the Drakes. “I’m sure. Thank you.”

The Drakes give a quick nod and walk away, Tim follows. Jason watches. Tim glances at Jason before their eyes connect for a moment.

“What was that, Jaylad?” Bruce frowns, turning to Jason. Jason’s eyes disconnect from Tim’s at the same time the Drakes disappear from his line of sight.

“Nothin’, old man.” Jason huffs, leaning into Bruce’s side. Bruce lets him do so, watching with a raised eyebrow. 

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks carefully, a hint of concern coating his words like warm, sticky honey. Jason nods, shutting his eyes and practically burying his face in Bruce’s side.

“Mhm. ‘m tired.” Jason huffs. Bruce laughs.

“Hello ‘tired’, I’m Dad.”

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 27 APRIL, 1 YEAR AND 3 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Save for the paparazzi, a certain camera stays oddly quiet.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 7 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

“Has anyone put a protection detail on Brown?”

Tim stared at the case papers like it personally offended him. 

He’s been working on this case for around two weeks, and hasn’t gone through a breakthrough. He’s gone over the material multiple times.

He’s printed out all of the immediate evidence. He’s considered motive, searched for connections between the targets, and so much more.

Nothing.

Not to mention the fact that he doesn’t understand Russian.

“What?” Tim asks distractedly. Did someone say something? He doesn’t look up, staring intently at the papers on the desk in the Batcave. 

His head pounds as he holds his head with his left hand. He lifts up his right hand, which holds a mug full of coffee, to sip at the drink.

“Has anyone put a protection detail on Brown?” Someone repeats. Tim snaps his head up to locate where the voice is coming from and winces at the amount of light invading his vision.

 When did it get so bright in here?

Pain pounds at his head as he squints to look at Damian. He’s in his Robin suit, just as Tim is in his Red Robin suit.

“Tt. Honestly, Drake. Are you so incompetent that you can’t comprehend me speaking to you?” Damian scoffs and Tim’s eye twitches. 

“Demon Brat.”  He huffs under his breath before blinking and trying to regain focus. “What do you mean? Why would we put a protection detail on Steph?”

Damian’s hooked nose scrunches up and his gaze falls on him, scrutinizing him. “Why wouldn’t we?” He counters. “The store Brown works at was almost robbed.”

Tim, in a spur, stands immediately, the chair discarded. He immediately regrets it as his vision spins and he almost gags.

He quickly sits down and coughs into his hand. “Robbed? What? Damian, when did this happen?” He manages to get out.

Damian, the brat, raises an eyebrow. “Almost robbed.” He amends.

Tim gives the other a deadpan look. “Doesn’t make it better,” He grits his teeth. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Tt. I believe Pennyworth tried to inform you the day after it had happened on April 19th, and we confirmed Brown had no injuries to tend to.”

Tim squints his eyes as he tries to remember that day. “You were too focused on your case work when he tried to speak with you.” Damian continues. 

At Tim’s look of confusion and utter despair, Damian sighs. “Brown had gotten a job at the store and was on her double shift while the store was almost ambushed. Although, someone took care of it.”

Tim practically relaxes into the chair with a sigh but then pauses. Jason surely wouldn’t have stopped a robbery during the day, neither would Bruce. So that would leave either Damian or Cass.

He’s betting on Cass. “Tell Cass I said thanks for saving Steph,” He says, lifting the case files for him to look at again. Maybe he could ask Babs to take a look..

“It wasn’t Cass.”

Tim makes a waving motion with his hand. “Then thanks, Dami.” He says dismissively. He really needs to get back to this case.

“It wasn’t me, either.” Damian sounds more stern now. Tim couldn’t care less. He pulls out a pencil and circles evidence on some of the files.

“Then thank Bruce or Jason, or whatever.”

“It wasn’t any of us, Drake.”

Tim looks up with a frown. A civilian, then? That could be why Damian is so adamant about this. But why would Steph need a protection detail..

As if Damian could hear his thoughts, he speaks. “It was someone who called themselves ‘Nightwing.’ We think male, around 5 '10 and a half. Black hoodie, black pants, blue shoes.”

“Nightwing? Who names their kid ‘Nightwing’?” Tim thinks aloud.

Damian looks unimpressed. “They have training, no doubt. I believe they could be an assassin or mercenary.”

Tim balks. “An assassin? Dami-“

“You did not see the security footage. They were smart. Their face avoided the cameras at all times. Even Brown could not properly get a glimpse of this ‘Nightwing’s face.”

That makes Tim pause. Steph’s a good vigilante and she’s fucking smart. Maybe not Bruce smart, but she’s a decent detective.

She knows the protocols to a ‘T’, although she mostly learned them to break them in front of Bruce on patrol for fun. 

It would be impossible for any normal civilian to get past Steph. And avoiding the cameras and witnesses? Coincidences maybe. But..

“..Coincidences.” Tim voices his thoughts after a beat, a hint of doubt in his tone. He knows Damian will counter quickly.

And to his credit, he does. “When coincidences pile up like that, they call it evidence.” Then Damian pauses. “Take it into consideration. I’m not sure how Father will react to the added stress.”

Tim nods, a bit dazed. It’s true. Bruce has been a bit more paranoid and stressed than usual since Jason’s come back. 

It’s been almost five months since Jason and Bruce fought as Red Hood and Batman. Jason’s been skittery and reluctant to even be in the same room as Bruce.

He rarely comes to dinner. (Read: at all.) He’ll patrol with the others occasionally, whenever Bruce isn’t around. And when he is..

It’s not good.

(If Tim wanted to hear two grown men argue, he would’ve just gone to the board meeting he skipped that day.)

Quietly, Tim bites down his words and swallows, giving a tiny nod. Damian hesitates before nodding back to him curtly,

Tim’s head doesn’t spin as he stands and he rubs his eyes with the inside of his palms. He sighs and leans on the desk. “Any other information?”

Damian shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Although, I did print out the report of the incident from the computer.” And then he stops.

Tim raises an eyebrow as Damian pulls out a file and hands it to him. “Dami, what did you do?”

“I may have deleted the report put in the Batcomputer.” He admits, and Tim’s eyes widen.

He hesitates but ultimately doesn’t chide Damian for it. Lord knows he himself has forgotten to or purposely not put in an incident report.

Tim bites at his lower lip but nods and takes the file from his hands. “That’s irresponsible,” He says weakly before sighing. “But I get it. Thank you, Damian.”

Damian nods before walking past Tim to walk upstairs and back into the manor. Tim’s focused on the file. It’s a beige color and blank, only a singular word written a blue marker in Damian’s cursive handwriting.

NIGHTWING.

His eyes are trained on the file, and he opens it, walking back to his desk. He doesn’t look away from the file and chews on his lower lip. 

His eyes scan over the file quickly, and moves to grab his pencil and frowns when he doesn’t feel it where he left it. He pries his eyes away from the file.

Damian snatched his pencil and the case he’d been working on. Damn you, Demon Brat, Tim thinks as he grits his teeth.

Damian’s done this before. Taking Tim’s coffee when he’s had enough, putting away Bruce’s batarangs when he’s too exhausted to train, reloading Jason’s guns when he thinks he’s not looking, discreetly placing bandages next to Cass’s pointe shoes.

He’d be damned if he ever said it was sweet. It isn’t. Damian isn’t sweet. Tim pushes his chair back and takes the file off the desk, standing up.

He’d be lying if he said he hated it, though.

NAME: “NIGHTWING” (COULD BE AN ALIAS.)

APPEARANCE: LAST SEEN WEARING BLACK PLAIN HOODIE, BLACK PANTS, BLUE CONVERSE SHOES.

STATUS: UNKNOWN.

INFORMATION: POTENTIALLY ASSASSIN OR MERCENARY; UNDOUBTEDLY TRAINED IN SOME WAY. POTENTIAL ALLY (?) OR THREAT.

THREAT LEVEL: UNDETERMINED.

Cold porcelain. Marble.

“I am one of twenty eight ballerinas in the Bolshoi,”

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 29 APRIL, 1 YEAR AND 3 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Tim has practically been vibrating with joy since the gala.

The grin on his face is like no other and has practically burned itself on his face. His face feels numb but it's so worth it.

He met Robin!

Holy shit. He met Robin. The Robin.

Some people say “Never meet your heroes,” but Tim is so glad he did. Jason Peter Todd(-Wayne?) is as kind as he is as Robin.

He’s blunt, and has a Crime Alley kid accent, but it’s a bit toned down as Robin than it is when he’s just Jason. Although, he’s pretty sure Crime Alley can sense their own.

Tim sits on the barstool at his kitchen counter, quickly writing down the answers to his math homework, but careful to write neatly.

He’s skipped two grades, and with his birthday, he’s supposed to be in second grade. But he’s in fourth grade, honors, too.

He can’t bring shame to the Drake name.

“The training is hard, but the glory of Soviet Culture and the warmth of my parents—”

Tim finishes up his homework and hurriedly pulls out his binder from his backpack to place his work in. He double checked his work, it’s right.

He zips up his bag after putting all his stuff away and slides off the barstool. He drags his backpack up the stairs of Drake Manor to get to his room.

No one’s home, and Ms. Mac just dropped by that morning before he went to school to drop off some groceries, so she won’t be visiting any time soon.

His parents left the day after the Wayne Gala pretty quickly, since they already had their luggage packed. Tim, ever helpful, helped them put the suitcases in the car.

Before they left, Janet placed a quick kiss on Tim’s cheek before a little harshly wiping off her red lipstick stain from his cheek.

Jack placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezed. “Be good for Ms. Mac and keep up those grades, Champ.”

Janet nodded after her husband spoke. “We’ll be back soon, in time for your birthday, honey.” She assured. 

“Ten’s an important age to turn, son. You’ll be in the double digits.” Jack grinned. Tim didn’t bother telling his father that he was turning nine. Not ten.

Tim simply nodded and watched from the driveway as their car drove off.

“My parents make up for—No.. that’s not right.. I am one of twenty eight in a class of assassins in training in the Red Room.”

Tim sets his backpack on the hanger in his bedroom and begins changing into some discreet clothes that won’t give him too much attention in Crime Alley.

He’s learned wearing his regular clothing draws some.. attention by others who steal in Crime Alley for survival the hard way.

While Tim was following Batman and Robin last week, he caught the attention of some muggers. Luckily, all Tim got was a bruise on his wrist and a cut lip.

When they realized he had nothing of value on him but his camera, they left him alone and simply left him in the alley by himself.

But not after manhandling his camera. There were two of them, so they passed his camera back and forth as he tried to get it back from them.

Essentially like a game of ‘Monkey in the Middle,’ before they got tired of bullying this short kid, they dropped Tim’s camera.

“Oops,” One of them said with a snicker before they both turned on their heels and left. Tim immediately cradled the camera, searching for any cracks or breaks.

His camera lens was broken.

Tim let out a mournful whine as he picked up his camera. Everything else was fine, except for the camera lens. The camera itself was expensive too.

He quickly took out the ID card to save his photos and cut his time to watch Robin and Batman patrol to go home, a bit regretfully.

But it wasn’t like he could do anything if he stayed out. His camera was broken and it was getting pretty cold out, plus he didn’t have anything very warm on.

Now, he sits on his bed in his room, cradling his camera. He overlooks all of it before sighing and grabbing his computer.

He searches up how much a new lens costs for his camera. The cheapest one is $200 and he winces. His parents don’t even know he has a camera.

He bought it with his own money that he saved from holidays like Christmas and bought it while they weren’t home.

His parents think photography is pointless and he should be studying business instead. Nonetheless, even if Tim bought the new lens, it would take at least a week to arrive.

And that’s not even counting the delays it might have for being in Gotham. Given, the rogue attacks and Joker’s gas bombs, rarely anyone wants to deliver in Gotham.

Tim sighs and flops back on his bed. Maybe if he picked up a small job doing lemonades or something then maybe..

His thoughts are cut off by a doorbell ringing. His doorbell.

Tim quickly sits up and scurries out of his room and down the stairs. Usually, no one visits Drake Manor at all. Maybe Ms. Mac or some housekeeper..

But Ms. Mac was there just this morning and the housekeeper hasn’t visited Tim since his parents fired her. Maybe Ms. Mac forgot something?

He opens the door and his lips part to say something but no ones at the door. His eyebrows furrow as he looks around. Maybe a ding dong ditch?

He’s about to shut the door before something on his doorstep catches his eye. He looks down and a small gasp gets caught in his throat.

His eyes widen as he stares. 

“Soon, I will become a fully fledged assassin. One of twenty eight… No. That’s not right either.”

A new and expensive camera lens that fits his camera perfectly is on his doorstep.

The marble cracks.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 13 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

The ship of Theseus.

The ship gradually had every piece of it replaced over the years with new and improved material. But is it still the same ship or not?

A paradox.

He spins his knife in his hand. The same knife he was given by Madame Karpova before everything happened.

The same knife that stuck with him for eleven years, and practically eliminated all his targets. His signature weapon that the others used to stare at in fear.

It’s the only thing he has left of the Red Room. He broke everything else. Set some of them on fire in hues of red, orange, and yellow. Some were abandoned in the safe house. Everything scattered.

His knife smells like lighter fluid and burnt flesh. He tried to burn the knife. But his skin crawled and he felt cold. Like someone poured buckets of ice on him, despite the flames being so close.

It’d been a sick race to get the knife before the fire did. 

He ran into the fire and swiped at the knife hastily. The fire had spread too close to him, and was close enough that he could feel the searing hotness on his skin. 

He quickly turned on his heel and ran out of the fire, but it was already a bit too late. The fire had burned the back of his ankle.

His hand grazes over the burn mark now.

His healing factor was already running weak from his malnutrition and sleep-deprived state. The burn mark stayed.

So did the knife.

When the burn mark first occurred, he had thought about Theseus’s ship then, too. The back of his ankle where the fire hit was bright red and his skin peeling as he thought.

If he were to burn everything he was, would he still be the same person?

If he was ever a person in the first place.

Theseus’s ship was all replaced over time.

He watched as the flames progressively engulfed the facility he grew up in.

But it was still the same shape. Same color. Same design.

His ledger was still red. Blood on his hands. Targets eliminated without mercy. Ruthlessly.

Is it still the same ship of Theseus?

Is he still of monstrous shape?

What makes the ship Theseus’s ship?

What defines a monster? 

What defines him?

He feels cold. 

The cold air of Gotham at night seeps through his open window and nips at any exposed skin it can; Given, he’s in a plain blue t-shirt and black sweatpants with random mix-matched socks.

He’s sat on a black office chair, leaned up against his desk which holds computers that probably second the Justice League’s. (Courtesy of Deadshot.)

He sets his knife down like it’s burning.

The knife is entirely black, save for the red engraving of a Black Widow’s symbol. It’s bright and stares at him like it’s mocking him.

You are no longer perfection, it says. A failure, it sneers. He has heard this from long before he graduated from one of twenty eight to the last standing.

He stands up.

Traitor.

VOLGOGRAD, RUSSIA. 29 OCTOBER, 9 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

The air around is thick, you could practically cut through the tension with a knife. The air smells like sweat along with a tangy sweet smell. 

Like copper.

Like thick blood.

Twenty-nine fill the room; Twenty-eight cadets, and a singular male trainer. Twenty-one cadets stand in a perfectly straight line.

Their postures are rigid, eyes straightly forward, and breaths synchronized like porcelain dolls. The trainer stands on the mat, hands behind his back.

The trainer is dressed in all black and seven girls that aren’t in line are leaning against the wall, each holding a certain part of themselves.

Cadet One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, and Seven, they’re called. One holds her shoulder, Two holds her side.

Three holds her thigh, Four holds her bruised cheek, Five holds her shoulder, Six holds her ankle, Seven holds her foot.

Cadets One through Seven have all fought the trainer. They have all gotten a lesson each. 

One is too cocky, Two is too anxious, Three is too flashy, Four is weak, Five is unfocused, Six isn’t strong enough, Seven’s defense is lacking.

“Next.” The trainer calls. They’re going in order. Since he is now Cadet Eight, it is now his turn. He steps up to the mat across from the trainer.

Only one person has ‘passed’ with this trainer. The Room sticks them with different trainers for six months to train them in different skills.

The first trainer they have is him. Sir Ivanov, they’re told to call him. His specialty? Up close combat. He’s brutal, quick, and unforgiving.

The only person who has passed a training session before was Twenty-five. Twenty-five stands in line now, waiting for her turn.

They’ve all learned that if you don’t pass before you switch trainers every six months, you die.

If you cannot show your worth to the Red Room, you die.

They have no use for Widows with no fangs to bare.

“Выберите оружие.” The trainer speaks, and it sounds out in the complete silence of the room. He nods curtly and turns to the wall where weapons lay. (“Choose a weapon.”)

The seven before him watch him carefully. They’ve all chosen the knife because it was the first thing Madame Karpova taught them to wield.

Given, they’ve only sharpened the knives and not actually learned to fight with them.

(He has.)

He grabs the knife closest to the one Madame Karpova gave him that day in the cafeteria and turns on his heel back to the mat.

The trainer, Sir Ivanov, doesn’t bother to look at the knife in his hand. It’s the same knife the other seven girls grabbed, he thinks Ivanov will think of him as nothing but another failure.

“Начинать!” Ivanov yells, and before he can get in another thought, Eight hastily lunges, aiming the knife for the trainer's throat. (“Begin!”)

Ivanov redirects the blow in another direction and side steps his body, making Eight spin like a dancer and lower himself in a defensive position.

“Too slow. Too predictable.” Ivanov hisses, Eight growls back. And for a minute, Ivanov almost seems impressed before the same blank expression envelops his face.

Eight readjusts his grip on the knife in his grasp before striking, aiming for Ivanov’s side. The trainer grabs his wrist and twists until the knife clatters to the floor. 

He lets out a hiss of pain involuntarily and Ivanov’s eyes narrow at him. Eight dips to the floor and swings his foot at Ivanov to trip him, but he steps back in surprise.

(An opening, a voice that sounds like warmth and coldness all at once says.)

Ivanov stumbles, just enough for Eight to swipe the knife from where it had clattered to the floor and pounces.

Eight swings with the knife in his right hand, Ivanov steps back with slightly widened eyes. Clearly, he did not expect one of the shortest cadets to be the one to not drop first.

Widows do not drop. They fight until they die.

Widows do not drop before death claims them.

Ivanov tries to grab Eight’s wrist where the knife is, but Eight flips up the knife and grabs it with his left hand, which isn’t being grasped by the trainer.

The trainer in question, however, did not expect this. Sweat drips from both of them and Eight holds the knife so tightly, it hurts.

Ivanov twists Eight’s arms and pushes him backwards and Eight arms fall to his sides to break his fall.

“Вставать. Снова.” The trainer could barely get out the last word before Eight was already back on his feet and swinging. (“Get up. Again.”)

(He did not need to be told twice to ‘get up.’)

Eight could barely see the flicker of approval in Ivanov’s eyes before that’s gone too. Eight charges, and this time, he knows what to do.

(“Pay attention, R—” Too warm and too cold says, but is cut off.)

Ivanov deflects and takes weapons away, he pushes and shoves but never accounts for tripping or actually punching a cadet.

He uses this.

Eight swipes up and Ivanov tilts out of the way, which leaves space for Eight to lift his right leg. Eight spins and jumps, sending a kick to Ivanov’s face.

Ivanov spits out blood quickly and that same flicker of approval in his otherwise impassive face is back.

Eight shifts his weight as Ivanov charges for once, he jumps and spins out the way in a gracefully fluid way. 

The trainer readjusts his weight at Eight spinning out of the way, just in time as Eight throws the knife at his shoulder.

Ivanov catches it before it impales itself in his shoulder and lunges for Eight. Eight tries to kick, but Ivanov is quicker.

Ivanov kicked at the back of Eight’s knee and causes the Cadet to fall onto the mat by his elbows. Eight quickly gathers himself to turn onto his back.

He tries to scatter to his feet but the knife is pointed in front of his face before he can properly get to his feet.

Ivanov’s shadow is above him, and he looks up. Ivanov’s bloody lips are curled into a sick grin and staring down at him.

They’re both panting now, Eight more so than Ivanov. The other twenty-seven in the room stare at them both like they’ve gone mad.

Ivanov drops the knife to the floor to signal the match between them is over. The metal clatters and he fights the urge to flinch at it.

“Ты хорошо сражался.” Ivanov says, bloodied lip and all. “Вы передаете.” He continues, and Eight’s head snaps up.  (“You fought well.” “You pass.”)

“Но есть одна ошибка, над которой нужно работать.” His trainer’s eyes narrow at him specifically and pulls him up to his shaky feet. (“But there is one mistake you need to work on.”)

“Что, сэр?” Eight swallows thickly. (“What, sir?”)

Ivanov turns to face all of them as a whole. “В чем была ошибка Восьмого?” He asks, a silent command for them to speak. (“What was Eight’s mistake?”)

“Нерешительность.” One girl volunteers. (“Hesitance.”)

Ivanov nods at her answer before turning to Eight in a fluid motion. “Вдовы – это совершенство и не меньше.” He says. (“Widows are perfection and nothing less.”)

They’ve heard that mantra ever since they awoke with handcuffs around their wrists that only tighten whenever they’re pulled.

Ivanov waves him off to the other seven girls who immediately avoid eye contact with him. Everyone does. 

Ivanov doesn’t spare him another glance as he walks to the wall where the other seven girls are, rubbing at his wrist, but he doesn’t feel sore.

His hand itches for a knife to grasp and spin in his fingers. He leans on the wall instead. The session continues, no one spares another glance at him.

But his gaze hardens.

Like icy cold marble.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 2 MAY, 1 YEAR AND 4 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

“Again.”

Jason groans, flat on his back on the training mat. Bruce stands over him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. 

Jason lifts his head to glare at Bruce, who only grins in reply. “Up and at it, Jaylad.” He says, holding out a hand.

Jason reluctantly takes it and hoists himself up with the help of the other. He sighs and dusts himself off.

Jason hates conditioning days.

Bruce always has him spar and then criticizes everything he does. And it always has him sore the next day, so he can’t go out as Robin!

“This is stupid, B.” Jason huffs, but holds up his fists and lowers his stance nonetheless. The other says nothing for a few moments.

“It’s important. You never know—”

“Yes, yes. ‘You never know what the enemy will pull’, I get it.” The younger grumbles before Bruce laughs.

Jason throws a punch that Bruce redirects. He tries throwing a kick, but Bruce grabs his foot and twists, making Jason yelp and fall on his back.

Again.

“Again.” Bruce says. Jason’s eye twitches.

Jason begins to stand up, but the batcomputer blares an alarm and lights up with a flashing red bat symbol.

Both Bruce and Jason’s heads snap to the computer. Jason scrambles to get on his feet and runs over to the computer.

“Code 595, Arkham Breakout. Computer, alert Batgirl to meet at Arkham.” Bruce barks, his Batman persona in full speed.

Jason’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Fuckin’ finally. ‘s a miracle, I get to skip conditioning.” He mutters to himself with a grin.

Bruce simply ruffles Jason’s hair with a grin, who lets out an indignant shout of ‘hey!’ He leans forward and places a kiss on his son’s hair.

Jason flushes in embarrassment and makes a disgusted noise, shoving the other away, causing Bruce to laugh. 

His expression softens at the sight of Jason grumbling and turning to grab the Robin suit that he left on the chair in front of the batcomputer.

With his ruffled hair and bright blue eyes, he looks like Dick. Bruce can feel pang of hurt and guilt at the thought.

“Suit up, Robin.” He says,

with a double meaning.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 2 MAY, 1 YEAR AND 4 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Gravel shuffles on a concrete rooftop. Waiting.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 22 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He bought a car.

He knows it’s not needed, he has a motorcycle after all. But he can’t drive it all the time, he needs to fit in during certain things that require it.

He bites on the stick of a cherry lollipop as it coats his tongue red in his mouth. He runs through all his contacts mindlessly while leaning on the door of his car.

He takes the lollipop out of his mouth and licks at it before checking the time. 08:39. He woke up 2 hours and 9 minutes ago. Is he supposed to be having a cherry lollipop for breakfast? Of course not.

But his metabolism works ten times as fast as any other normal person. Maybe a little less than the metabolism of a speedster, but still fast.

Given, sweets make him sick usually, So the Red Room used to give him bland nutrition bars that managed all his sugar intake. Just enough to keep him from passing out during training. The texture was absolutely horrible, though. 

And he’s not in the Room anymore.

He doesn’t have to rip apart old, stale bread to ration throughout all twenty eight of them. (He still can never finish a whole piece of bread to this day. It makes him sick.)

He pushes himself off the door and double checks everything. Keys in pocket, phone now in pocket, doors locked, candy in mouth, groceries in the trunk.. is he forgetting something?

Wipe him. Start over.

He winces immediately as a memory flashes through his mind, painful. His head throbs, but he brings a hand up to soothe the headache.

That was weird.

Again.

He hits his head as it gets foggy again. A crack sounds out, and his heart rate quickens minutely before the taste of sharp candy pricks his tongue.

He sighs and crushes the last of the lollipop with his teeth. Shame. He actually liked it. Maybe he’ll buy another one. He should go back into the store for more—

A loud, puppy in pain cry sounds out, and his hearing immediately picks it up. His eyes narrow and he doesn’t hear it for a while, he assumes it’s just another memory or hallucination.

But then it happens again, the puppy cries out in pain and the laugh of a human follows soon after. His eyebrows furrow, then it happens again. Then he realizes.

Oh, hell no.

He quickly follows the sound and it leads him into a back alleyway behind the grocery store. Two teenagers are laughing, looming over a scared pup, which is crying out in pain.

The puppy is a grey pitbull with a few patches of white. The pup has three limbs, a stump is in place of what is supposed to be the fourth paw. It’s eyes are a bright blue.

But the pup is covered in blood, curled up while the teenagers laugh. They were most likely the cause. “Hey!” He shouts, anger and disdain bleeding into his tone.

The teenagers immediately look up at him before scurrying off, running out of the alleyway on the opposite side of him.

Usually, he would’ve chased after them, roughed them up a bit for doing that to a defenseless animal, but there’s more pressing matters. 

If he doesn’t tend to the injured puppy now, it may die. He weighs his options before muttering a litany of curses under his breath that would make even a sailor gasp and blush.

He hurriedly picks up the pup, mindful of the little thing’s injuries. He’s dealt with his own injuries before, but not in healthy ways. He grit his teeth and kept on fighting until the pain numbed. But the kitten can’t do that.

It’s barely a pup, no older than 6 months old. He takes it to the car and slams the door closed. He shoves off his carhartt jacket and wraps it warmly around the pup, which whimpers.

He grasps onto the wheel and begins driving. None of the other citizens in Gotham spares his hurried driving a second glance. No one obeys the laws anyways.

You’d be hell of a lot lucky to find someone without a criminal record in the city.

He speeds towards the nearest vet clinic. The way he parks is nobody’s business, and he gets off to take the puppy into the building. There’s a nice-looking woman who takes the kitten into a room.

“Name for the file?” The receptionist asks kindly.

“Gray Sindock.” He taps his fingers on the counter anxiously.

“Address and name of your pet?”

The address of his apartment number and street falls from his lips with ease. But then he hesitates. He wants to say that the dog isn’t his. And that he would be leaving when he knows the kitten is alright.

It doesn’t come out of his mouth. And well.. he did say he fostered kittens. Maybe adding puppies to the list isn’t so bad. And plus, some sort of cover would help.

“Haley.” He says.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 22 MAY, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

A sword is sheathed silently.

BELARUS, RUSSIA. 21 JANUARY, TWO YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE. 

Dick Grayson is gone. 

He has officially been marked dead. After two years of the Justice League and everyone in Gotham searching, Dick Grayson has been pronounced dead.

A ceremony was held, a beautiful one at that. Bruce Wayne did a speech, if anyone had known better, they’d think Bruce Wayne died along with his son.

The public hadn’t seen a Wayne cry, much less Bruce Wayne. But he did. At the funeral he did. Justice League members and most of Gotham had gathered. 

The coffin was buried alongside Dick Grayson’s birth parents. 

Eight watched. The TV was an old one, probably from the 1980’s from the looks of it. The apartment he stood in was dingy and old too. 

Dust infests the air, he can hear mice in the walls. Eight is alone in the dingy apartment. He is one of twenty eight. 

A hand rests on his shoulder. “Eight,” a woman’s sweet voice interrupts his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “It’s up to you now.”

“I know him.” Eight’s mouth forms. He can’t think. Can’t speak for himself.

Nails dig into his shoulder, like a spider’s fangs digging into skin with slick poison.

Like a cobra wrapping its body around its prey until it succumbs to suffocation.

“No you don’t.” Sweet and honeyed, pure as a feather. As convincing and alluring as a siren.

Eight slips.

“No, I don’t.”

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 21 JANUARY, TWO YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE. 

Bruce Wayne stares at Jason as he squirms in the Robin uniform, twisting and sighing restlessly. He pulls his son close, pulling him under the cape of his Batman suit.

”B,” Jason groans, grumbling under his breath and pressing his fingertips into the hard flex of the armor in Bruce’s suit.

Bruce shushes him, combing fingers through his little Robin’s hair, and for a minute, he swears he hears Dick’s shuffling and giggling once more.

“Chum, stay still.” Bruce grunted.

 

Dick giggled, doing cartwheels and grinning with his face numb from the cold and the pull of his lips upward. He walks across the edge of the roof.

 

”Catch me!” Robin soars.

 

Batman follows.

”B, catch me!” Jason jumps into Bruce’s arms.

Bruce follows.

Checkmate, little bat.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 21 JANUARY, TWO YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE. 

Something burns under Eight’s skin, pulling and tearing him apart like teeth biting into flesh and utterly ripping.

The cold bites at his skin, eyebrows furrowed in determination, blue eyes hidden.

It feels like affection. 

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. 21 JANUARY, TWO YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE. 

The camera shutters. And someone else shudders.

Chapter Text

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. PRESENT, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He stands with his hands on his hips, looking utterly confused. The puppy stares back at him.

It was a spur of the moment decision. He hadn’t meant to take in a little stray dog, but he did. He was delirious and running off of pure instinct.

His building smells like weed and headache, one that causes confusing stab wounds into his soft pale skin and riffs against his brain that throbs and throbs until he breaks by swallowing down liquid medicine like a child.

He still can’t swallow pills.

“I cannot swallow pills,” He says to the dog. He isn’t sure why. It’s not like she can reply. And indeed, she does not. She just continues to stare. Her eyes are a deeper color of blue, like she understands more than him.

It frustrates him. This dog shall not know nothing more than him. He is older. He has more experience. He knows more. It is a stupid thought, getting angry over a mere dog.

But then she looks at him with her blue eyes, head tilted and grey fur covering her ears that flop to one side with gravity’s hold, and something hot burns inside him.

Hot and burning. It is warm, like a hug, but like a call of something worth paying attention to.

Nothing stabs at his ribs, nothing constricts him, nothing tells him to care, or to speak. Nothing and no one will understand them—when did it become a them?

“I cannot give you.. normalcy.” He says to her. He does not like that word. It feels opaque, bleak of anything worth analyzing or right enough. The words do not feel right in his mouth.

But he is not righteous, either, so he digresses.

“I am true. I cannot be gentle or loving. You will be best spending your life with someone who's fingertips are not burnt with hot blood of mistakes, or someone who promises you love and follows through.”

The dog doesn’t reply. She, of course, does not. But she looks mindful. As if taking his words into consideration, if she dare could. Her one front paw slides forward on hardwood floor until her chin rests on the wood beneath his own two feet.

That is not your decision to make, she does not say.

He takes it into consideration, despite all. “No,” he says, thoughtful. “I suppose it is not.” He relents, teaching a hand out, fingers not poised for a weapon, just being in normality.

He isn’t sure the last time he wasn’t tense. Was not waiting for someone to cause burning beneath his skin, in his muscles and bones and beneath that in his soul to where it rings and brushes in his ear.

“What do you want?” He inquires.

The little grey dog blinks. Then yawns, a set of little teeth, a pink little tongues, and so baby-like. So what he wishes could have been if he had teeth as sharp as hers. Opportunities missed and acquisitions passed.

It is clear she’s made her choice.

He slowly picks up her small body, cradling her close to his chest, near his heart, like she had once came from a womb long gone from needles and scalpels screaming.

Soft, baby-smooth grey fur. Bandages over small injuries from mean-mean people.  A scent that smells clean clean clean. A sigh that screams content and mind-made-up. And staying.

He flops down onto the bed, puppy in hand. She does not yelp, nor does she bark or yip or whine. She sighs again, like she has been waiting for this moment her whole life.

She squirms, wiggles and wriggles underneath his muscled arm bicep and she is perfectly cuddled against him. Her little body is warm and assuring, stable and present.

“Haley.” He murmurs, gentle as her fur is against his lips.

Sleep comes quicker than words.

THE PAST.

“Haley’s Circus.”

His memory reads to him like a bedtime story from long, long ago. Something to forget and be forgotten like a dream or a breeze you’ve recognized but never cared to memorize.

If he puts his mind to it, he can see a bleary image of a woman with hair as dark as a raven’s, skin as tan as an olive, lips as red as her heart. Eyes blue like the sky she falls from.

Her soft fingertips brush over the curve of his dimple, only one dimple he has on his right side, and drags her fingernails up to his mid-cheek, where she softly digs in for a poke. “Obraz de bebeluș,” she says. (“Baby face,”)

A smile breaks out on his face. His smile feels too big for his face. Lips more juvenile than hers, more pouty and full of life, virgin. A body he is still growing into. Baby-cheeked, indeed.

When he tells her this, she gives him the same smile. Her dimple is on her left side. Like a perfect mirror. “I am you.” He thinks. “You are what I may be—and I am not what you have been.” But that is not a conversation he is ready to have yet.

“Vei creşte în ea.”

She sounds sure of it.

Her voice sounds sure of it. Like she has never been right about anything before this. Her birth is a metaphor. Her death is life. And he will grow into it.

You will grow into it.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. PRESENT, 11 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

He wakes with a gasp and a choke like choking on thick, thick water.

He will never grow into the nightmares.

THE RED ROOM ACADEMY. THE PAST, 2 YEARS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Eight struggles to shove his foot into the pointe shoes.

They are too big for him but he feels bare without any underwear beneath his tights. His skin is the same color as his thin, transparent sorry-excuse for an unalloyed layer.

Layer upon layer to keep him warm and ready. Stretches and calisthenics. Girls roll out their limbs like ballet mats unfolding, faultless.

They, too, have baby smooth skin and soft bellies that dip and curl into something not-yet godlike and almost angel shaped.

Unlike the leavings of the rest of their mortal chassis, their feet are marred by the work of work. Bent knees, shaky thighs, toes bruised and unnaturally bent to match their thoughts.

None are wearing underwear, too, like him. Their tights are stuck to their skin, too, like honey on a hot summer day. Sticky and sticking.

Eight wonders if they, too, feel that wave of unease. Their tights against baby smooth thighs, riding up up up until it not-yet grinds, not-yet rubs, and almost grazes.

Eight wonders if they will ever feel ease with it. He slides his own baby smooth thighs apart to split in half on the floor to stretch and excuse the stillness of his carcass.

A warm aching graces his unattended-to limbs with a tenderness of a not-yet perfect god. Nor a not-yet rolled limbed girl. Not a girl at all, but perceived as one.

Baby-faced, Eight gazes upon at the older girls in the room.

They do not talk. Smoother hands on even smoother hips, tights not over their flexed thighs, but rather over their black leotards so they look tall tall tall tall enough to fly with the angels. Shoulders precise and yet-dainty. Chin held high, yet-confident.

And, Yes, he thinks, I will grow into it.

GOTHAM, NEW JERSEY. THE PAST, 5 MONTHS AFTER THE DISAPPEARANCE.

Gotham is cold.

It’s mid-winter. No one is coming to Gotham. No one would want to. Gotham’s citizens stay within her comforting and protecting walls like they can be safe from the horrors of humanity.

Her claws dig in deep into the citizens whose birthright lies within her. Jason never thinks of leaving. But the lucky ones do.

The ones that go to college outside of the city. Jason knows that they can’t stay away long, unless they are strong and Gotham herself has allowed them to leave for their own safety.

Like those in witness protection that deserve it. Or the poor college students that can only afford to go out of state. They do, eventually, come back on their own will. Like a siren’s lure.

But college students are leaving back to their college campuses now that winter break is over. People are bargaining for heaters, and others are stocking up on gas.

Planes fly overhead, birds chirp, dogs bark and bark while the chains holding them clink. His mami shouting for him to hurry and get to school. Willis’ beer bottles. Those sounds, Jason is used to.

What he isn’t used to, is the silence.

Gotham manor is secure. There’s no rats running by that Jason has learned to not yelp at. There’s no mice clawing at the walls that Jason had to cover his ears to sleep with. There’s no shouting of his parents arguing.

There is Bruce, and there is Alfred. Neither of them have the scent of alcohol lingering on them when Jason goes in for a hug. And their lips do not form Get me a beer, would you, Jason? into his ear.

Jason does not fetch a beer in Wayne Manor.

His father would never say thank you, even after. Just a nod of acknowledgment at times. Bruce and Alfred say ‘thank you’ a lot.

His mami taught him to be polite. So when Bruce or Alfred ask him for a spoon to stir the soup or a batarang for them to practice, Jason obliges.

“Just like fetching a beer,” He murmurs to himself sometimes. And sometimes Bruce catches him.

Bruce never says anything. But Jason sees the way Bruce’s face slips out of that mirage of calm and into a more mindful one. Like the last time Jason tried on the Robin suit.

It was too big around the arms, and too long around the legs. Jason struggled until he huffed and gave way. He slapped his hands down onto the side of his thighs.

“I give up.” Jason groused.

Bruce had just smiled, fondly. Yet also with a slight glint in his eye that Jason can’t place. Longing? Grief? Maybe both.

Bruce stepped forward, hands gentle as he ran his fingers through Jason’s hair. It was one of the few times Jason let it happen. It looked like Bruce needed the comfort.

Mami always said to be polite.

Bruce’s lips brush Jason’s forehead, and Jason makes a dramatic face, and an even more dramatic “ugh” sound. Bruce just laughs.

“You’ll grow into it.”

Jason looks down at the Robin suit. Dick Grayson’s suit. His legacy. His only real evidence that Robin was not just a myth, not-yet a god, and not-yet perfection.

So yes, Jason thinks. I will grow into it.

He is sure of it.