Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Oh Damian, Damian, Damian.

"Mama, when can I see Father?" Damian asked, her large, dark eyes peering up through the strands of her long hair. Her voice carried the innocent hope of a child, but the coldness in her mother’s gaze silenced any warmth. Talia's fingers ghosted over Damian’s bangs, as she slowly massaged her scalp, her touch mechanical.

“When you defeat me on your special day,” Talia replied, her voice devoid of affection. “Now, come on. Training awaits, Damian.”

With that, Talia abruptly withdrew her hand, as if touching her daughter for any longer might remind her of the disappointment she carried. Damian’s heart sank, but she followed silently. She had learned not to expect warmth from her mother. It was weakness, and weakness had no place in her life.

Talia trained Damian like a boy—because Damian was supposed to be a boy. She was meant to be the heir Ra's al Ghul desired, the legacy that would live on through the Demon’s Head. But there had been a mistake. A grave one. Talia had never truly accepted that Damian was born a girl. The truth stung her every time she looked at her daughter, her failure reflected in Damian’s eyes. Ra's was furious when he found out, more than furious—disappointed. 

Damian wasn’t meant to be a girl. 

She wasn’t a girl, not in Talia’s eyes, not in Ra’s. The name Damian was chosen for a son, and a son she would be. From the day she was born, Talia drilled it into her: "You are a boy. Always a boy. Never a girl. You are a weapon. You are not human."

And Damian believed it. She clung to it like a lifeline. It became her truth, her religion. Despite her body developing, despite the contradictions her mind sometimes whispered in the dark corners of her thoughts, she did not question it. Questioning was weakness, and weakness would be her undoing. 

She was a boy. She was a weapon. Her purpose was singular: to fight, to conquer, to be the perfect heir.

_______

“Again!” Talia’s voice snapped like a whip as she watched Damian struggle to land a punch. Sweat dripped from the young girl’s forehead as she pushed herself harder, her small frame coiling with effort. The pain in her muscles didn’t matter. The ache in her bones didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except being stronger, being better.

Talia circled her like a predator watching prey. “You’re too slow,” she hissed. “Do you think your father would be proud to see this weakness? Do you think Ra's would accept such incompetence?”

Damian gritted her teeth, her fists tightening. “No, Mama,” she whispered.

“Then prove it,” Talia spat. “Again.”

Damian obeyed, her movements more precise, more brutal. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, but she kept going, kept pushing. Pain was temporary. Pain was necessary. It was her only way to survive in this world, the only way she would ever be worthy of seeing her father.

____________

One…

Damian swung the sword, her movements fluid and precise, as if her body had memorised every attack, every defence. Her strikes were deliberate, her breath steady, even as sweat trickled down her forehead. From the shadows, Talia observed, eyes narrowed, calculating, assessing. Her daughter—no, her son—was busy perfecting what she had been trained to do. The illusion of perfection, the relentless pursuit of an impossible standard, was all that mattered.

Two…

Damian lunged the blade into the practice dummy, its lifeless form yielding beneath her assault. Each slice was purposeful, every strike ensuring that no mark, no flaw, no colour remained on the fake body. The dummy was nothing more than a canvas for her mastery, a silent witness to her devotion to this life of war.

Three…

Without warning, Talia leapt from the balcony, her own sword drawn and aimed with deadly precision. The cold metal met the flesh of Damian's back with a sickening thud, the tip breaking skin and drawing blood.

Four…

Damian screamed, her body betraying her despite the discipline she had drilled into it. Pain flared in her spine, radiating through her limbs. She crumpled to her knees, the weight of the strike and the agony it brought overwhelming her for a moment. Tears welled up in her eyes, stinging, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. Tears were weakness. Weakness had no place in this world.

Five…

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stand, defiance burning behind her tear-filled gaze. With shaking hands, she reached for the sword embedded in the dummy, her fingers gripping its hilt tightly. 

She was forced to beat her creator, her god, her mother.

The swords clashed, the metallic sound of each strike reverberating through the air. Each movement was precise, fueled by years of training, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper—something broken. War cries filled the room as the duel raged, the battle between mother and child blurring the lines between training and family.

“I despise you as my daughter!” Talia screamed, her voice laced with venom as she thrust her sword toward Damian. The words cut deeper than the blade ever could. They tore through the last remnants of hope Damian might have had for her mother’s approval. 

But oddly, it didn’t hurt. Not in the way Damian thought it would. The pain didn’t make her feel small or worthless—it made her feel… nothing. Something inside her shifted, a coldness taking root. A switch flipped, plunging her mind from light into darkness. The part of her that still longed to be seen, to be loved, was silenced.

“I despise you! And your worth!” Damian shrieked, her voice hoarse with anger, with rejection, with years of internalised hatred that she hadn’t even realised was festering. With a swift motion, her blade found its mark, slashing across Talia’s thigh.

Talia let out a final grunt of pain before collapsing to the ground, her hands clutching her bleeding leg. The moment hung in the air, thick with unspoken emotions, as mother and child stared at each other, the victor and the defeated.

“Happy thirteenth birthday, my dear boy,” Talia cooed through laboured breaths, a twisted smile curling her lips. “You win. I lose.”

Damian stood there, panting, her chest heaving as she stared down at her mother. For a moment, the weight of the words pressed on her, but it passed just as quickly. Without a word, Damian withdrew her sword and placed it gently on the ground. She turned away, leaving Talia alone with her blood and her defeat.

In her mind, the mantra repeated.

I am a weapon. I am a boy.

_______

Before Damian could even glimpse her father, Talia grabbed her by the arm and shoved her to the side with a sharp, dismissive gesture. Her eyes burned with the familiar intensity Damian had grown used to, but today, they seemed harsher, colder.

“You’re a boy,” Talia hissed, jabbing her finger in Damian’s face as if reminding her of something she should never forget.

Yes, I know that, Damian thought, a reflexive, almost robotic response echoing in her mind. She nodded, suppressing any emotion, and stepped into place behind the heavy curtain, her body tense with anticipation. This moment, the one she had trained for, had lived for, was finally here.

The air felt thick as she waited, her heart pounding, though her face remained expressionless. She could hear the faint shuffle of footsteps—the unmistakable sound of him. Batman. Bruce Wayne. Her father.

Talia moved swiftly, with grace, revealing the curtain in a single, dramatic motion. Damian shot out from behind it, her small frame composed, disciplined, yet brimming with something else—an energy she hadn’t quite placed.

“Meet your son, Bruce,” Talia said, her voice smooth, as though this moment held no complexity, no tangled history.

Damian’s eyes met Batman’s. She stood there, the weight of everything she had been trained to believe bearing down on her, the word “son” lingering in the air like a command.

"I thought you'd be taller," Damian stated dryly as she stepped past her mother, her eyes scanning her father with a mixture of curiosity and mild disappointment. Though, to be fair, she was quietly impressed by his solid physique. He had the body of a warrior. But a bat? She had imagined something more imposing. 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed in disbelief as he stared at the child in front of him. "You expect me to believe this... child is my son?" he muttered, the shock evident in his voice. His gaze flickered between Damian and Talia, trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

Talia, ever poised, nodded confidently. She glided over to Damian, placing a hand on her shoulder as though she were presenting a prized weapon rather than her daughter. “Ra's is gravely ill, and we cannot risk taking Damian as well. You shall be his guardian until it is safe for him to return home,” she said smoothly, not even addressing Bruce's question. She turned to leave, her mission accomplished. “Good luck,” she added with an air of finality.

Bruce remained frozen, his brow furrowed, as the reality set in. Another one. He was already juggling the weight of Gotham, of being Batman, and now—another child. This time, a child who came with even more complications than most could imagine.

Damian stood silently, her expression unreadable as her new reality unfolded. Talia fled the scene quickly, her dressing ripping apart while doing so. 

“Damian, correct?” Bruce asked, his voice low but firm, as if still piecing together the reality of the situation. Damian nodded, her movements sharp, almost mechanical. She stood there, still dressed in her training attire, the small cuts on her skin barely noticeable in the dim light. Bruce sighed, long and heavy, running a hand through his hair before turning on his heel and walking away.

Damian followed him, her steps careful, watching him from behind with an intensity she had inherited from her mother. Her father—Batman. The man she had been trained to one day confront, and now, finally, she was here.

“Alfred, prepare a room. We have… another one,” Bruce spoke into a hidden intercom as they crossed the threshold of Gotham City. His tone was weary, as though the weight of another responsibility had just been dropped onto his shoulders.

Damian scoffed, barely able to contain her disdain. Another one? she thought, her mind racing. What does that mean? What am I… another of?

Bruce slowed his steps, turning to face her, his expression a mixture of realisation and frustration. “So, you’re my son,” he finally said, the words hanging awkwardly in the air.

Damian looked at him, her gaze cold and empty. Thirteen years she had waited to see him, to meet the man she was told was her father. But now, standing before him, it felt… off. The anticipation had worn thin, replaced by a strange hollowness. She had expected more. Or maybe she had just waited too long.

“I’ve been watching you,” Damian said flatly, as though discussing the weather. “You’re Batman, but your real name is Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy. You’ve had sidekicks—Robins, as well.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, a child reciting facts from a textbook.

She didn’t wait for a response, her interest already waning. Damian strode off the boat and onto the land, her eyes scanning the city. Gotham. This was the place she had heard so much about—the infamous city her father protected.

There was a strange, sleek vehicle waiting for them near the dock—an imposing, jet-black car. Damian couldn't help but scoff inwardly. A Batmobile? How predictable. How foolish. The theatrics of it all felt unnecessary.

“Can I driv—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, his voice flat and emotionless, cutting off Damian’s question before she could even finish. Without another word, he climbed into the driver’s seat with practised ease, leaving no room for negotiation.

Damian sighed, irritation prickling at the back of her mind, but she said nothing. She slipped into the passenger seat and buckled herself in, her fingers brushing against the interior of the vehicle. As her eyes roamed the space, she noticed some strange, scribbled writing on the sides. It wasn’t what she expected in a car meant for stealth and intimidation.

Jason was here!! :3

Dick is the first Robin! (losers TvT)

Tim found out who Batman was (IT'S B- why are you still reading this?)

Damian's brow furrowed slightly as she read the childish graffiti. Jason? Dick? Tim? She had heard some of these names before in her studies, but seeing them scratched into the Batmobile was bizarre. Dick was the first Robin—the original sidekick, the one who had stood where Damian now stood. 

She turned her head, gazing out the window as the Batmobile sped away from the dock, and into the heart of Gotham. The city was even gloomier and more oppressive than the stories had led her to believe. Buildings loomed like giants, their shadows stretching across the streets, where chaos seemed to live in every corner.

Gotham. My father’s kingdom. A city built on crime and fear. 

And here she was, the latest in a long line of Robins—whatever that meant to Bruce. To her, it meant she had to surpass them all. She had no intention of being just another name scrawled inside the Batmobile.

Chapter Text

The Batmobile rolled to a stop in front of what appeared to be an old manor, large and looming, but not nearly as grand as the League's headquarters. It had a foreboding presence, though, with its gothic architecture and the towering spires that pierced the overcast sky. Yet, there was something domestic about it too—light pouring out from the windows, the faint sounds of laughter drifting on the cool Gotham air.

"Get out," Bruce instructed, his tone clipped. Damian scoffed, rolling her eyes with a dramatic flair that earned no reaction from him. She exited the car, making her way toward the large, heavy doors of the manor. She had expected a place of quiet brooding, a reflection of her father’s grim persona, but there was a sense of life in the house that surprised her.

As Bruce joined her at the door, she noticed that somehow, in the span of seconds, he had changed into regular clothes. A simple sweater, jeans. The seamless transformation intrigued her, but she didn't ask. Bruce Wayne remained an enigma, and that much was clear.

Damian knocked on the door, the wood feeling solid beneath her knuckles. Inside, she could hear a faint commotion—a voice shouting, followed by the sound of quick, heavy footsteps approaching.

When the door swung open, Damian was greeted by a tall figure. His black hair was short yet wavy, and his bright smile instantly lit up the space between them. For a moment, Damian was taken aback—it was as if the very light she had been denied all her life shone through this stranger's expression. But that warmth quickly faded the moment his eyes landed on her and Bruce.

His smile faltered, confusion and something else—maybe concern—crossing his face. Was something wrong with her?

Bruce sighed, the weight of the situation clearly wearing on him. He pushed the door open wider, allowing Damian to step inside the manor. "Come on," he muttered, signalling for her to follow.

Damian stepped across the threshold, her eyes scanning the interior of the house. It was unlike anything she had imagined. A strange mix of warmth and tension filled the air, as though the house itself was grappling with the duality of its existence—both a home and a fortress.

“Bruce, not again—what the fuck?” the man yelled as Damian entered the house. The man was furious, his voice echoing off the walls. Damian paid little attention to the tension at the door and instead made her way toward the kitchen, curious about the unfamiliar voices she had overheard.

Inside the kitchen, she saw three people. One was an older man, likely a butler based on his demeanour and attire. The other two looked young. One of them was big and muscular, practically radiating raw energy. The other was slender, his frame almost fragile by comparison.

Before Damian could process the situation, the yelling from the hallway intensified. 

“Dick, I can assure you that he’s not—” Bruce started, trying to contain the situation.

“No!” the man—Dick, apparently—cut him off, his voice rising with anger. “You’re not letting this boy go through this, not again, Bruce!”

The bulky one, still in the kitchen, peeked his head out from around the corner, his eyes narrowing the second they landed on Damian. He seemed enraged by her very presence and, with a loud clatter, threw the utensil he had been holding onto the floor. His eyes burned with fury.

The slender one, too, finally noticed Damian as he stepped out of the kitchen. His face immediately twisted in disbelief. "Bruce, you're replacing me?!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling. Damian could tell by the way his eyes glistened that he was on the verge of tears.

"Tim, I’m not—" Bruce tried to interject, but the situation was spiralling quickly.

The bulky one—Jason, by the sound of it—was now fully focused on Damian. His anger was almost frightening as he pointed directly at her. “Old man, another one? Fucking take him back!” Jason shouted, his finger jabbing through the air in Damian's direction.

Damian stood there, trying to process the scene. Another one? What did that even mean? Why did it feel like they had all been through this before?

Before Jason could continue, Bruce snapped, his voice firm and commanding, “Jason, shut the hell up!” The room fell silent for a brief moment, the tension thick in the air.

Damian’s eyes darted from face to face, trying to piece it all together. These were the people who had come before her. The other "Robins." And for some reason, they all seemed to hate the idea of her being here.

"I suppose Master Bruce is acquainted with another one. Shall we introduce him?" the butler, Alfred, remarked with his usual dry composure. The words echoed in the tense silence. Tim, unable to hold back his emotions, ran out of the room, tears streaming down his face. Jason shot one last venomous glance at Damian before rushing to follow Tim, leaving Dick standing there alone.

Dick sighed heavily, rubbing his temples as he watched the others leave. He stepped toward Damian, trying to mask the exhaustion in his voice. "I'm Dick Grayson. First Robin, Nightwing, and an acrobat," he introduced himself, gesturing toward Damian. "You?"

Damian glanced at her father for a brief moment, waiting for some sort of signal. Seeing none, she squared her shoulders and met Dick's gaze. "Damian Wayne Al-Ghul. Master Assassin," she said plainly, offering her hand in a formal gesture. "Nice to meet you, Grayson."

Dick's expression shifted the moment he heard the name Wayne and Al-Ghul. His face paled slightly, and his eyes widened in disbelief. "Holy shit," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. "You fucked Talia?" he exclaimed, incredulous, before turning and walking out of the room, clearly needing a moment to process.

Bruce stood there for a moment, huffing in exasperation, clearly unfazed by the chaos unfolding around him. "Alfred, show Damian his room, then take him to the training centre," Bruce ordered before turning and leaving without another word.

Alfred, with his usual grace and calm, stepped out from the kitchen and gave Damian a respectful bow. "Master Damian, shall I show you around?" he asked, his voice kind and measured, as if this were any ordinary day.

Damian nodded silently, trying to process the whirlwind of introductions and emotions. Alfred stepped in front of her, ready to lead. Despite everything, Damian couldn't help but feel a strange sense of curiosity. This place was chaotic, but there was something intriguing about it too—an adventure waiting to unfold.

"Right this way, Master Damian," Alfred said as they began their tour of Wayne Manor, the first steps in what was to be her new life.

Alfred led Damian through the grand halls of Wayne Manor, each step echoing softly against the polished marble floors. The mansion was as imposing as it was opulent, with dark wood panelling, high ceilings, and an air of both history and mystery.

"This way, please," Alfred said, guiding her past several rooms adorned with antique furnishings and framed portraits of the Wayne family. Damian observed the decor with a mixture of curiosity and detachment. Everything was pristine, meticulously arranged, and yet somehow cold—like a well-maintained museum.

They eventually arrived at a set of double doors. Alfred opened them to reveal Damian's new room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated, with a large bed, a desk, and a window that offered a sweeping view of Gotham's skyline. The room had an air of understated elegance, but to Damian, it felt more like a cell in a grand prison. 

"Your personal quarters, Master Damian," Alfred announced, setting down a leather-bound folder on the desk. "I’ve arranged for a few changes to be made to suit your preferences."

Damian glanced around, noting the minimal personal touches. "Thank you," she replied, though her tone was as flat as ever.

Alfred nodded and gestured towards a door at the far end of the room. "When you are ready, I will take you to the training centre. It’s where Master Bruce and the others train and practice."

Damian’s interest was piqued. Training had been her life, her purpose. If Bruce’s training centre was anything like the League’s facilities—or better—it would be worth her time to explore.

Alfred gave her a moment to settle before leading the way once more. They walked down a series of corridors, each more impressive than the last, until they reached a large, secure door with a combination lock.

"This is the entrance to the training centre," Alfred said, entering the code to unlock the door. It swung open to reveal a state-of-the-art facility, complete with an assortment of equipment, sparring mats, and high-tech gadgets. It was clear that Bruce took his training seriously.

Damian stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room with a mix of admiration and calculation. She saw various pieces of equipment—weights, punching bags, obstacle courses—and a large area for hand-to-hand combat practice. The space was impressive, though Damian couldn’t help but wonder how it compared to the League’s own training grounds.

"This is quite impressive," Damian said, her voice carrying a hint of genuine respect. 

"Master Bruce ensures that the training centre is kept in top condition," Alfred said. "He believes that constant training is crucial, especially in a city like Gotham."

As Damian explored the training centre, she found herself mentally preparing for the challenges ahead. She would need to prove herself, not only to Bruce and the others but to herself. The expectation of being another Robin, another "replacement," weighed heavily on her. But she was determined to surpass that label. 

Alfred watched her silently, his presence a reassuring constant in the midst of the whirlwind that was Damian’s new life. 

"When you're ready, Master Damian," Alfred said, "I can arrange for you to meet with Master Bruce to discuss any specific training regimens you might have in mind."

Damian nodded, a steely resolve settling over her. She would prove herself. Gotham was a battleground, and she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” she said, her voice now carrying a note of determination. “I’ll be ready.” 

As Alfred left her to her own devices, Damian began to familiarise herself with the training equipment, silently preparing for the trials that awaited her in this new chapter of her life. Damian’s gaze fell on the combat area where Tim, Jason, and Dick were gathered. She sighed, feeling the weight of their expectations and hostility. With a determined step, she walked down the stairs towards them, ready to make her presence known.

Once she reached the area, Tim and Jason both turned to face her. Their expressions were a mix of irritation and apprehension. Tim, with a surge of anger, stormed over to Damian, grabbing her by the shirt and pulling her face inches from his. “You will NOT be replacing me,” Tim shouted, his voice echoing in the training centre. Without waiting for a response, he turned and marched back to join Jason.

Damian, unfazed, tilted her head slightly and smirked. “I think I’ll do a better job as Robin than you guys ever could,” she muttered, loud enough for Tim to hear.

Tim’s head snapped back towards her, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Do you want to say that again?” he demanded, his voice a low, threatening growl.

Damian met his gaze with a cold, unblinking stare. To her, Tim’s threat seemed hollow and ineffectual. “I said,” she repeated, her tone dripping with disdain, “I think I’ll do a better job as Robin than you guys ever could.”

Tim’s face flushed with anger, his fists clenching at his sides. Jason, still standing near Tim, glanced between them, his own anger simmering just below the surface. Dick, watching from the sidelines, appeared more thoughtful, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

“Damian,” Dick finally said, stepping forward, “we’ve all had our own paths and challenges. But coming in here and belittling the work we’ve done—”

Damian cut him off, her voice firm. “I’m not here to belittle anyone. I’m here to be the best. If that means stepping up and proving myself, then so be it.”

Tim, still seething, took a step closer to Damian, his frustration evident. “You think you can just waltz in and be better than us? It doesn’t work like that.”

Damian's gaze remained steady, her eyes flashing with a fierce defiance. "I’ve been tortured by my mother for over a decade," she declared, her voice cold and unwavering. "I’ve been trained to be nothing more than a weapon. So yes, I believe I can waltz in and claim that I’m better than you." Her eyes were numb, almost detached as she recited Talia's teachings with the precision of someone recalling a sacred text.

Jason's eyes narrowed, a mix of disbelief and scorn crossing his face. "Who are you, anyways, kid?" he demanded, his voice tinged with hostility.

Damian’s smirk grew slightly as she faced him. "Damian Wayne Al-Ghul. Heir to the Demon Head," she recited, each word deliberate and heavy with meaning. The impact of her declaration was immediate and visible. The others’ reactions ranged from shock to grim acknowledgment.

Tim's expression hardened further, a dark shadow crossing his face. "Talia," he said through gritted teeth. "You’re a demon."

The statement was cold, a direct accusation that spoke volumes about the underlying tension and history between the characters. The room fell silent, the weight of the words hanging heavily in the air.

Chapter Text

Dick’s expression softened with a mix of pity and concern. He glanced at Tim and Jason, sensing the deep-seated emotions the name “Al-Ghul” stirred. He knew that the history between Talia and the Bat-family was complex and fraught with conflict.

Damian's expression hardened with determination. "I am not a demon. My purpose in life is to be the next Demon Head, to succeed Ra's al Ghul and surpass my aljadu," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. Her gaze locked onto Tim, unyielding and fierce.

Tim, visibly annoyed by the confrontation and by Damian’s air of superiority, sucked his teeth as he grabbed his staff. "Fight me," he demanded, his voice carrying a challenge that echoed through the training centre.

Damian's smirk widened, her resolve unshaken. She stepped towards the weapon rack, quickly selecting a katana and drawing it with practised ease. The blade shimmered in the training centre's lights, a testament to her skill and readiness.

"I’m ready, Timothy," Damian said, her voice dripping with confidence as she prepared for the duel.

Tim’s face was set in a grim expression, his eyes focused and intense. He took up a defensive stance with his staff, his movements sharp and precise. The tension in the air was heavy, the anticipation of the fight making every breath feel charged.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," Tim said, his tone serious as he prepared for the clash.

Damian advanced with a fluid, almost predatory grace, her katana slicing through the air with practised precision. Tim responded swiftly, his staff moving in a series of defensive manoeuvres designed to block and defend her attacks.

The clash of their weapons was sharp and rhythmic, each strike and counter-strike a show to their training and skill. Damian’s movements were aggressive, her attacks relentless, while Tim’s responses were quick and measured, reflecting his experience and adaptability.

As they sparred, their breaths came in quick, focused bursts. Each strike from Damian was met with a skilled counter from Tim, and vice versa. The combat was a dance of skill and strategy, neither willing to give an inch.

Damian’s eyes remained cold and calculating, her focus solely on the fight. She was determined to demonstrate her prowess and assert her place within the team. Tim, though equally committed, was driven by a mix of frustration and a desire to defend his position.

After several intense exchanges, Damian managed to land a solid hit, knocking Tim’s staff aside. With a swift motion, she pressed the tip of her katana against Tim’s chest, signalling the end of their sparring match.

Tim glared at her, panting slightly from the exertion. “Whatever, you’re alright,” he admitted begrudgingly. “But don’t think this is over, nor that you are better than me.”

Damian nodded, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. “I didn’t expect it to be,” she replied coolly, retracting her katana and stepping back.

Dick watched the exchange with a mix of concern and approval. He could see that Damian’s skills were impressive, but he also recognized the need for them to work together and find common ground.

Jason watched the fight with a mixture of grudging respect and cautious curiosity. He had to admit, Damian’s skill with the katana was impressive—perhaps even a bit intimidating. He kept his thoughts to himself, choosing to observe rather than intervene. The fighting prowess Damian displayed was undeniable, and it was clear she was a force to be reckoned with.

As the sparring session came to an end, Damian, her breath steadying, looked around the training centre with a critical eye. “Are there any other swords here?” she asked, her tone reflecting both her curiosity and the underlying expectation that her preferred weapon might be available.

Dick, still catching his breath from the earlier confrontation, pointed towards an old rack in a corner of the room. The rack held a collection of various weapons, including some swords that appeared to have seen better days. “There’s a few more over there,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. “They’re not used much around here.”

Damian’s gaze fixed on the rack as she walked over to inspect the swords. The blades were dusty and worn, a stark contrast to the pristine condition of the training centre’s other equipment. Despite their age, Damian’s experienced eyes could see that they were still functional—if a bit rough around the edges.

She carefully selected a long, ornate sword from the rack, its blade etched with intricate designs. The weight felt familiar and comfortable in her hands. With a few experimental swings, she assessed its balance and sharpness.

“It’ll do,” Damian said, nodding in approval as she tested the sword’s edge. “I prefer a weapon that’s seen some action. It feels more... honest.”

Jason, observing from a distance, raised an eyebrow at her choice but didn’t comment. Dick, meanwhile, looked on with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “We don’t use those swords much,” he said. “They’re not exactly maintained like the rest of the gear. But if you’re comfortable with it, that’s what matters.”

Damian nodded, her attention already shifting to the next part of her training. “I’m used to working with less-than-perfect equipment,” she said. “It’s not about the weapon; it’s about how you use it.”

With that, she moved back to the centre of the training area, ready to put the old sword through its paces. Her movements were fluid and precise, showcasing her mastery over the weapon despite its condition.

Jason, still observing, couldn’t help but be impressed. The combination of skill, confidence, and the way Damian handled the sword was undeniable. He might have had his doubts earlier, but seeing her in action made him rethink his initial judgments.

____

Damian made her way to the living room, her movements deliberate despite the discomfort from her reopened cuts. The bandages on her training clothes were stained and tattered, a stark reminder of the brutal training she had undergone.

The room was quiet, the others seemingly preoccupied with their own tasks or resting.

“Are there any band-aids here?” Damian's question about the bandages went unanswered, leaving her with a sense of irritation. She had grown accustomed to a lack of response, as if her presence and needs were insignificant.

Alfred, always attentive to the details, eventually approached her with a calm demeanour. “I believe you asked about the bandages?” he inquired gently, his voice carrying a hint of concern.

Damian nodded curtly, her patience thinning. “Yes. Where are they?”

Alfred gestured towards the alcohol cabinet, a rather unconventional place for medical supplies. “They’re over there. I apologise for the unconventional location; it’s a matter of space.”

Damian looked at the cabinet with a mix of scepticism and annoyance. Why they kept medical supplies near alcohol was beyond her. Nevertheless, she walked over and retrieved the bandages, quickly beginning the task of re-wrapping her injuries. The cuts were a constant reminder of her harsh upbringing and training, but she kept her focus, determined to maintain her façade of indifference.

As she worked, she heard soft footsteps approaching. Dick, who had been in another part of the house, walked in and paused, observing her as she attended to her wounds.

“Need any help with that?” Dick asked, his tone genuine but cautious.

Damian shook her head, her expression a mixture of defiance and self-reliance. “I can manage. I’m used to doing things on my own.”

Dick nodded, respecting her need for independence. “Alright. Just know that if you need anything, we’re here to help. We might not be blood related, but we are brothers,” 

The word “brothers” was foreign to Damian, never used in her life. It was a strange concept, one that didn’t align with her understanding of herself or her place in the world. They thought she was a boy, and she would maintain that illusion. The thought of Dick seeing her injuries or her chest was uncomfortable—an encounter she’d rather avoid.

Damian walked into the kitchen, she opted to stay in just her bandage wrappings and the bottom of her pants, a practical choice. The starkness of her attire was a testament to her discomfort and resolve, but she tried to focus on the task at hand: finding something to eat.

The kitchen was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to the earlier commotion. The others were gathered around the table, their conversation muted and hesitant. The atmosphere was tense, a reflection of the day's events and the new dynamics Damian had introduced.

Alfred was at the stove, preparing a meal with his usual efficiency, though his expression was more reserved than usual. He glanced up as Damian entered, his eyes briefly assessing her appearance with a hint of concern.

"Good evening, Master Damian," Alfred said, his tone as calm and composed as ever. "Dinner will be served shortly. Is there anything specific you would like?"

Damian shook her head, her gaze drifting over the table where the others were seated. "No, thank you. I’ll take whatever’s ready."

As she moved to sit down, the others—Dick, Tim, and Jason—looked up briefly, their expressions ranging from curiosity to guardedness. The silence that followed was easily known, each person seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

Damian took a seat at the table, her posture rigid but composed. She wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate this new social environment, but she was determined to make her presence known. She could sense the undercurrent of tension and curiosity directed her way, but she chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the food in front of her.

Alfred soon brought over a plate, placing it in front of Damian with a nod. "I hope this is to your liking," he said, his tone still neutral but with a touch of warmth.

Damian picked up her utensils and began eating, her movements deliberate and controlled. She was acutely aware of the others’ eyes on her, but she chose to keep her focus on the meal, using it as a moment of respite from the emotional and physical strain of the day.

The silence at the table lingered, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery or the soft hum of conversation that ebbed and flowed in quiet murmurs. It was clear that the group was still processing the day’s events.

As the meal continued, the tension gradually began to ease. Dick eventually broke the silence with a casual comment about the day’s training, attempting to shift the focus and make the atmosphere a bit more relaxed.

"How are you finding the training so far, Damian?" Dick asked, trying to sound casual. "It’s quite different from what you’re used to, I imagine."

Damian looked up from her plate, meeting Dick’s gaze with a steady, if somewhat guarded, expression. "It’s different," she said simply. "But I believe it’s a good system. The robots however need improving. Too slow."

Jason scoffed at the words and made his way to the kitchen, Damian's gaze followed him briefly before returning to her plate. Her knife moved with precision, cutting through her steak. The rhythm of it, the sound of the blade against the plate, seemed to pull her into the past.

“Mama, stop! Please…i-it hurts!” echoed in her mind, a plea that felt both distant and near. Damian could still see her six-year-old self, writhing in agony as Talia plunged the sword into her small wrist, the blood dripping down her arm. Her mother's cold, satisfied expression had seared itself into Damian's soul, a lesson she would never forget. Pain was meant to shape her, not break her. She was being moulded into the weapon Talia wanted—needed.

In the present, Damian's hand tightened slightly around her knife, her jaw clenching as the memory flashed vividly in her mind. She took a deep breath, shaking it off. There was no place for weakness here. Not in front of them. Not in front of her so-called "brothers."

Jason returned from the kitchen, a drink in hand, glancing at her with a sideways smirk. “What’s with the sudden silence? You finally realise you’re in over your head?” he teased, though there was a bite to his words.

Damian met his eyes, her voice even as she replied, “I was just thinking about how much harder it was to fight someone who actually wanted to kill me.” She put down her knife, her eyes cold. "I doubt you've faced the same."

Jason’s smile faded slightly, but he kept up the bravado. “You’re not special, kid. We’ve all been through hell. But don’t act like you're the only one with scars .”

Damian's eyes flickered to his, her expression unreadable. “I don’t need to act, Jason. I know what I am .” She paused, glancing down at her wrist, the phantom pain from the past still lingering in the back of her mind. "And I know what you’re not. "

Jason's sharp, sudden movement as he plunged the knife into his steak made an involuntary reaction stir within Damian. Her heart raced, and her hand instinctively gripped her wrist, squeezing it tightly, bracing for the pain that was ingrained in her memory. The old habit of preparing to cover the blood that wasn’t actually there haunted her at that moment. It wasn’t real—it was just her past creeping back, but it felt real enough.

The slap of her palm against her wrist echoed softly through the quiet kitchen, enough to catch Dick’s attention. His eyes flicked toward her, quickly scanning her wrists. His gaze lingered just a second longer than usual, as if he knew there was something more beneath the surface—something Damian wasn’t showing.

“Everything alright?” Dick asked, his voice low and cautious, though it had a hint of concern behind it.

Damian’s expression remained unreadable, her grip loosening slowly as she forced herself to breathe. “I’m fine,” she replied, her voice steady, almost mechanical. She picked up her fork again, her fingers a bit stiff but controlled.

Dick didn’t push further, but his glance told her he wasn’t fully convinced. Jason, meanwhile, chewed his food, clearly uninterested in the momentary tension. For him, it was just another awkward dinner with the new kid.

Chapter Text

Bruce set his plate aside, his eyes narrowing slightly as he heard the edge in Damian’s voice. “How was life with your mother?” he asked, his attempt at conversation coming off as stiff. Small talk was not his strong suit, and Damian could sense it.

She took her time cutting into her steak, chewing on the piece deliberately before answering, “Living hell. Why would you want to know?” Her tone was sharp, defensive. The aggression was shown, and it wasn’t lost on Bruce.

He leaned back slightly, his face hardening. “Because it matters,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I need to understand what you’ve been through, Damian. If you're going to be here, under my roof, I need to know who you are.”

Damian’s grip on her fork tightened. “You don’t need to know anything. I survived just fine without you,” she snapped. There was anger in her words, but behind that anger was something else—years of feeling abandoned, of being raised by a woman who saw her as nothing more than a tool.

Bruce’s eyes darkened, his patience wearing thin. “This isn’t about the past. It’s about now. You’re not with the League anymore. You’re with me . Things are different here.”

Damian dropped her fork, her eyes flashing with defiance. “ Different? You mean weak. You fight crime in a city that never changes. You surround yourself with people you call ‘ family, ’ but what have they really done for you?” Her words cut deep, but Bruce remained unmoved.

“Family doesn’t have to be about survival, Damian. It’s about more than that,” Bruce replied evenly, though the tension in his voice was evident.

Jason, who had been quietly watching the exchange from the side, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Good luck explaining that to him, Bruce. He’s more stubborn than you.”

Damian shot Jason a glare, but her attention quickly returned to Bruce. “I don’t need family,” she spat. “I’m a master assassin, a weapon to prove to be the next Demon Head. That’s what I was made for.”

Bruce’s expression softened just slightly. “You’re more than that, Damian. Whether you realise it or not.”

Damian’s fists clenched under the table, her mind racing with memories of Talia’s harsh lessons, of being told she was nothing but a tool for destruction. The idea that she could be anything else felt foreign, even wrong. But here was Bruce—Batman—telling her she could be something more.

“I don’t need anything else. I like who I am now,” she said quietly, her voice filled with conviction, though a small part of her questioned whether she believed it.

“What do you mean, ‘What have they done for you?’” Dick asked, his expression confused as he recalled Damian’s earlier comment about family.

Damian smirked, a cold glint in her eyes. “Tell me, Dick,” she began, her tone mocking, “have you died for him?”

Jason’s chair screeched as he abruptly stood up, glaring at Damian. “The fuck? Yes, I have,” he spat, fury radiating off him.

Damian's smirk widened at the reaction she got from Jason. "Oh, how wonderful," she said, voice dripping with mockery. "A zombie and two other brainless boys."

Jason’s fists clenched, and he practically growled, "You wanna say that again, you little—?"

Damian remained unphased, staring at him with cold amusement. “Touchy, are we?” she teased. “I wasn’t expecting that to be literal. What a tragedy. And yet, here you are, still playing sidekick to someone who let you die.”

Jason’s face twisted in anger. “Watch your mouth, brat. You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through.”

Damian shrugged, completely unaffected by his anger. “You died, came back, and still haven’t learned anything. So, who’s the real fool?”

Dick stepped in quickly, seeing that Jason was about to lose it. “That’s enough, Damian,” he said firmly, trying to defuse the situation. “This isn’t about who’s been through what. We’re all here now, and if you’re going to be part of this family—”

“I’m not part of anything,” Damian interrupted, her tone icy. “I’m here because I have to be, not because I want to be.”

Dick frowned, clearly frustrated. "Family isn’t something you just walk into expecting nothing, Damian. You think being a weapon makes you better than us? We’ve all fought, bled, and—yes—Jason has even died for this."

Damian’s smirk faded, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not interested in your sentimental nonsense, Dick. I know my purpose, and it’s not to play family with you.”

Bruce, silent until now, stepped forward. “ Enough ,” he said quietly but with authority, his eyes locking onto Damian’s. “We’re not doing this. You’re here, Damian, and that means you're part of this family, whether you like it or not.”

Damian’s gaze flicked to Bruce, and for a brief moment, her confidence wavered. But she quickly regained her composure, scoffing under her breath. “ Family ,” she muttered, as if the word itself was a joke.

Jason, still fuming, muttered, “He’s gonna be a real joy to have around.”

Damian glanced at him, her expression cold. “Don’t worry. I won’t be here long enough to ruin your little reunion.”

“Whatever,” Tim muttered coldly. “Just know you’ll damage the Robin reputation once Bruce puts the suit on you.”

Damian shrugged off his words, showing no sign of being rattled. She continued eating, savouring the meal, which was surprisingly good. Once she was finished—long before anyone else—she rose from the table and headed for her room. It had been a long day, filled with introductions, challenges, and new faces, all of which drained her in ways training never did.

When she entered her room, she noticed neatly folded clothes laid out on the bed, clearly prepared in advance. Enough to last several months. Alfred’s touch was unmistakable. Damian offered a quiet, unspoken thank-you to the butler, appreciating the gesture, and then made her way to the shower.

In the bathroom, the heat of the water cascaded over her, scalding her skin, but she welcomed the discomfort. It was familiar. As the water washed away the dirt and sweat from the day, Damian stood still, her thoughts drifting to the life she had left behind. The pain, the expectations, the coldness of her upbringing under her mother’s harsh hand.

She scrubbed at her skin harder than necessary, almost as if she could scrub away the sins, the blood, the weapon she had been moulded into. But she knew better. Nothing would erase that. She wasn’t here to find peace or redemption—just purpose. The purpose her mother had drilled into her.

When she finally stepped out of the shower, the steam-filled room felt suffocating, yet oddly comforting. Wrapping herself in a towel, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes lingered on the bandages that wrapped her torso, reminders of the cuts and bruises, both old and new. But more than that, reminders of who she was. Or who she believed she was supposed to be.

"I am a weapon," she whispered, reaffirming the mantra that had been drilled into her mind since childhood. "I am a boy."

Her chest tightened as she quickly dressed in the clothes Alfred had prepared for her, trying not to think about the parts of herself she couldn’t allow anyone to see. She would play the part. She had to. There was no other way.

Once dressed, Damian sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the dark Gotham skyline. Her mind raced with thoughts of what was to come. The challenges, the tension with her new "family," and most of all—her father.

She clenched her fists. This wasn’t where she belonged. But it was where she needed to be. For now. 

Damian didn’t bother with changing her bandages after her shower. They would dry by morning, and she was too exhausted to worry about it. Instead, she slipped into a black oversized hoodie and pyjama pants, the comfort of the soft fabric a stark contrast to the harshness of her reality.

As she lay down on the bed, the pillow felt cool and inviting against her cheek. Sleep came quickly, as it often did after a day filled with emotional and physical exertion. Her thoughts drifted as she closed her eyes, consumed by the certainty that this was just a temporary interlude.

In her mind, she was already back with Ra’s al Ghul, back in the familiar embrace of her training, the harsh discipline that had shaped her into the ultimate weapon she was meant to be. This brief respite in Gotham was merely a pause, a step on her journey, not the end.

She would return to her creator, her purpose clear and unshaken.

Chapter Text

_____

Once morning broke, Damian rose before the others, her movements swift and deliberate. She dressed quickly, her hands skilled in patching up her bandages, ensuring her injuries were covered but not stifling her. The most important task was binding her chest, as always. She couldn’t risk anyone finding out the truth. She was a boy. She was a weapon.

After getting ready, Damian left her room, curiosity tugging at her as she explored the manor. The door closest to hers bore the name "Tim Drake." She continued down the long hallway, eyes scanning the other names—"Dick Grayson," "Jason Todd," "Barbara Gordon," and "Duke Thomas." She mentally filed them away, assuming these were the other people who resided in the house. It was just another reminder that this place, with all its laughter and warmth, wasn’t where she belonged.

As Damian descended into the Batcave, the faint hum of machines greeted her. The dim light gave the vast underground space an eerie, almost sacred feel. Shadows played across the walls, dancing off the various pieces of tech and the towering Batcomputer that dominated the room.

Her eyes narrowed as she approached the massive screen, her curiosity piqued. The data flowing across the screen, the files, the encrypted systems—it all seemed important. But could it help her achieve her goal? Could it provide her the edge she needed?

“Seems intriguing, but will it do the job?” she muttered to herself, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the desk. Her gaze shifted to the sleek chair in front of the computer, and with little hesitation, she sat down.

Her hands hovered over the controls, wondering how much access she had. Bruce might be the detective, but Damian had her own skills. "Let’s see if Father trusts me as much as he claims," she thought as she began tapping at the keyboard, her eyes scanning the files she was able to open.

Her mind raced, calculating possibilities, strategies, ways to use this knowledge. But beneath it all, the same thought lingered—this was temporary. Everything she did here was merely a step toward something greater, something that lay far from Gotham.

A faint noise from behind interrupted her concentration. Damian stiffened, her hand instinctively moving toward the nearest weapon, but she relaxed when she saw Alfred approaching, his footsteps light but deliberate.

"Master Damian," he said calmly, "I see you’re already making yourself at home." His tone was polite but knowing.

Damian looked at him briefly before returning her attention to the screen. "Home is a strong word," she replied flatly, her focus still on the data in front of her. "Just trying to see if this equipment is useful."

Alfred smiled softly, his gaze understanding. "Indeed. But I’m sure Master Bruce would prefer you leave the Batcomputer for another time. Breakfast will be ready soon."

Damian's eyes sharpened as she scrolled through the files on the Batcomputer. One name stood out, blinking ominously on the screen: Joker . Her lips curled into a cold smile. The clown-faced madman had terrorised Gotham for years, and in Damian’s mind, it was absurd that he was still breathing.

“Quite a bastard,” she muttered under her breath. The file was filled with reports of chaos, destruction, and the countless times Batman had stopped him, only for the Joker to return again and again. It baffled her that Bruce hadn’t ended the clown’s reign of terror.

Damian’s fingers tightened on the keyboard. She couldn’t wait for the opportunity to face him—to end the Joker once and for all.

Her mind raced with possibilities. Her mother’s teachings echoed in her head: There is no room for mercy. A weapon finishes its mission.

She was already lost in thought, imagining the battle. The swift, final strike. The Joker wouldn’t laugh again.

But before she could dive deeper into the plans forming in her mind, a small alert blinked on the screen. It was a security reminder, something Bruce had installed to prevent too much access to the more classified files.

Damian leaned back, huffing in frustration. She could easily bypass it if she wanted to, but the risk of being caught wasn’t worth it. At least, not today.

As Damian made her way upstairs, she wasn’t prepared for the sight of Bruce in casual clothing. It was jarring, but she quickly dismissed it. There were more pressing matters to focus on—like the girl in the wheelchair.

The ginger-haired woman had freckles dusting her face, and there was something about her that immediately set Damian on edge. She didn’t understand why they would allow a girl to be part of such a team, and she found herself scrutinising her.

What is she doing here? Damian wondered, her sharp eyes narrowing. But before she could dwell on it further, her attention shifted. Dick was already in the living room, casually eating cereal like nothing was out of the ordinary. Tim was rushing out, grabbing a piece of toast on his way out the door, bag slung over his shoulder.

"Later!" Tim called out, clearly in a hurry, barely acknowledging her presence.

Jason, meanwhile, was sprawled out on the floor, snoring loudly. Typical.

Damian folded her arms and took it all in. This was her new life, at least for the time being, and it was filled with these odd dynamics that seemed so different from the League. No strict schedules, no punishments, and no immediate threat of life or death.

Her eyes drifted back to the girl in the wheelchair. There was something about her presence that unsettled Damian, and she made a mental note to figure out why.

"They don't even know what a weapon is supposed to be," Damian thought to herself, the faintest hint of a smirk crossing her face. These people were too relaxed. Too soft.

"Morning, Damian," Dick called out from the living room, his tone light as if everything were normal.

“You don’t deserve a good morning,” Damian yelled from the kitchen, her voice cutting through the quiet air like a blade. The kitchen was larger than she expected, polished and pristine, almost too clean. She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet, then reached for the glass jar of milk. Everything here seemed so polished, so perfect. It grated on her nerves.

As she poured the milk, her mind drifted, as it always did, back to Talia. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, cold and commanding, each word sharpening the edges of her thoughts. Talia had shaped her—moulded her into a weapon. Every lesson, every strike, every cut was a reminder of who she was supposed to be.

Before she could register it, the glass jar slipped from her hands. It hit the ground with a sharp crash, milk splattering across the floor. Damian froze, her chest tightening as the room around her seemed to vanish.

"Damian!" Her mother's voice was deafening.

Suddenly, she was five years old again, staring up at Talia's furious face. She felt the familiar, cruel grip around her throat. Her mother’s hand, cold as steel, tightened with every second, just as it had so many times before. Damian gasped, her hands instinctively flying to her neck, as if the phantom grasp was still there, suffocating her. Her vision blurred as she tried to pull in a breath.

“You are weak. You are nothing without me,” Talia’s voice hissed in her ear.

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she struggled to shake off the haunting memory. This wasn’t real. She wasn’t in the League anymore. She wasn’t under Talia’s control. But it didn’t matter—her body reacted as if she was still trapped in that place, still a child under her mother’s cruel tutelage.

“You are lucky you’re my child, or else your neck would’ve snapped,” Talia's voice was ice, slicing through the air with effortless cruelty. Damian’s body trembled, but she dared not make a sound. Her mother’s grip was like iron, unyielding, but even as it loosened from her neck, Damian knew the worst was yet to come.

“Clean up this mess you made,” Talia continued, her words punctuated with venom. “Every time you make a mistake, you’ll get a scar that will forever remain with you. This will be the eighty-sixth one, Damian.”

The words stung more than the wounds, yet they were always followed by pain.

Suddenly, Talia’s fingers, sharp as blades, raked across Damian’s stomach. The pain was immediate and searing, like fire running through her skin. Damian gasped, her small body convulsing as the blood from the fresh cut trickled down her stomach. She tried to hold back her cries, but they came anyway, broken and desperate.

“M-Mother, please,” she whimpered, her voice trembling as she reached out toward Talia, hoping—foolishly, as always—for some sign of mercy. But Talia’s cold eyes only lingered on her for a moment longer, filled with indifference.

“You brought this on yourself,” Talia said before turning her back to her child, her footsteps echoing as she walked away, leaving Damian on the floor, bloodied and broken. She didn’t look back. She never did.

As Damian lay there, her small hands clutching her wounded stomach, tears streamed down her face. She wanted to scream, to beg for her mother to return, but deep down, she knew it was futile. Talia always left. And each time, Damian was left with another scar—a permanent reminder of her failures.

It was in that moment, the cold reality of her existence washed over her again. She was nothing more than a weapon in her mother’s eyes, and every mistake was another step toward perfection, no matter how much it cost her.

And yet, as the pain subsided into a dull throb, Damian’s tears stopped. 

Damian blinked rapidly, trying to push away the lingering haze of her memories. Her breaths were uneven, and she could feel a cold sweat forming on her skin. The present moment felt so distant from the pain that had overwhelmed her.

“Damian? Are you good? You went into a trance right there…” Dick’s voice was filled with concern as he knelt beside her. His expression was a mix of confusion and worry, clearly unsure of what he had just witnessed.

Damian took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She slowly raised her head, meeting Dick's eyes. The concern in his gaze was genuine, but she could not afford to show any weakness. She needed to maintain her facade, her identity as a weapon, a boy.

“I’m fine,” Damian said, her voice hoarse but resolute. She stood up, brushing herself off with a sense of urgency. “It was nothing. Just a momentary lapse.”

Dick seemed unconvinced, but he nodded, giving her the benefit of the doubt. “If you need to talk or anything—”

“No,” Damian interrupted, her tone more forceful than she intended. “I don’t need to talk. I need to train.”

Without waiting for a response, she moved past Dick and headed towards the training area, her mind shifting back to her purpose. The echoes of her mother’s voice, the pain, and the scars—these were her reminders of what she needed to overcome. She would not let them distract her from her goals.

Dick watched her leave, a worried frown etched on his face. He wasn’t sure what Damian was going through, but he knew it was more than he could understand. For now, he could only hope that training would be a positive outlet for her, and that she would eventually find a way to deal with her past.

Chapter Text

Damian never got around to eating breakfast or enjoying it; it was just another inconvenience in her life that she’d endure. She found it odd, though, that her father hadn’t reached out when she broke the glass. But then again, Bruce’s lack of immediate concern was typical.

As she descended the stairs, the thunderous sound of gunfire grew louder. Damian followed the noise, making her way to the training area. She saw Jason in the middle of a full-scale venting session, the room filled with the harsh pops and bangs of gunfire. He was armed with two guns, his focus intense as he aimed at and decimated the shooting dummies. The once-impassive targets now bore the brunt of his anger, their forms riddled with bullet holes.

Damian stopped a few feet away, watching silently as Jason continued his relentless assault. She noted the raw energy he was expending, the frustration evident in every shot. His movements were precise but carried a heavy undertone of agitation.

“Looks like someone’s having a tantrum,” Damian said, her voice carrying a mocking tone.

Jason’s eyes flickered with irritation at her comment, but before he could react, the tension in the room escalated. In a moment of frustration, he pulled the trigger, and Damian watched as the bullet sped towards her.

It struck her shoulder, the impact sending a jolt through her body. Damian flinched slightly but remained standing, her expression cold and unflinching. Jason’s face went from a mask of rage to one of shock and horror as he processed what he had just done. The realisation of his actions seemed to hit him like a freight train, his anger giving way to a sudden, profound regret.

Jason dropped the guns to the floor with a clatter, his hands trembling. “Shit, I—” he began, his voice wavering.

Damian touched her shoulder where the blood was beginning to seep through her shirt. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but it was a stark reminder of the volatility around her. “You missed the mark, Todd,” she said calmly, despite the pain. “You should learn to control that anger of yours before it ends up hurting someone else.”

Jason’s eyes widened, and he rushed towards her, his face pale. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Save it,” Damian interrupted, her voice steady but firm. “I’ve been through worse. Just be more careful next time.”

“No, you’re young and that could cause more damage. Just let me help,” Jason insisted, making his way towards Damian.

Damian chuckled softly, though each movement sent a sharp pang through her shoulder as the bullet shifted deeper into the wound. “Todd, just keep doing what you’re doing. I need to go practice anyway,” she said firmly, refusing his help.

Jason hesitated, his face a mix of frustration and concern. “Damian, you’re not—”

“I’m used to this,” Damian interrupted, her voice steady despite the pain. “I’ve been used to this from Talia. You made a mistake, and you shot me. Big damn deal. Just focus on your own issues.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he stepped back reluctantly, his eyes lingering on her as if hoping she would change her mind. Damian turned and headed towards the training area, her steps purposeful despite the discomfort.

As she walked, she could feel the blood trickling down her arm, but she pushed the pain aside, focusing on her need to practise. She entered the training area, where the dim lighting and the presence of various training equipment offered a semblance of normalcy.

Jason’s frustration was evident as he shouted up the stairs, “Bruce! I shot Damian by accident!”

There was a pause, followed by Bruce’s irritated voice from upstairs. “Enough jokes, Jason.”

Jason sighed, his anger and concern mingling into a storm of frustration. “This isn’t a joke, Bruce!” he snapped back. “Damian’s injured!”

Bruce’s footsteps could be heard descending the stairs rapidly, his face shifting from irritation to concern as he reached the training area. He took in the scene—Damian, diligently continuing her training despite the bullet wound, and Jason, looking increasingly distressed.

Jason’s frustration bubbled over as Bruce dismissed the situation, his words cutting sharply through the air. “Jesus, Jason! Stop joking around,” Bruce snapped, clearly exasperated. With that, he went back upstairs.

Damian’s black sweater concealed the bloodstains, making the injury less visible, but the pain was unmistakable. She didn’t argue, though the frustration in her eyes was evident. Jason’s anger spilled over.

“You damn Demon. I try helping you, and you make me look like a fool!” Jason’s voice echoed through the cavernous space.

Damian shrugged nonchalantly, her expression a mix of defiance and resignation. “You’re the one who shot me. Maybe you should aim better,” she retorted, her voice carrying an edge.

Jason’s frustration echoed through the training room as he shot at the dummies, his anger evident in each explosive impact. He had little patience left, and Damian, who seemed to be perpetually in his way, only made things worse. Her presence was a reminder of the chaos and disruption that seemed to follow her.

Damian picked up the katana from the floor, her focus narrowing. She moved to her designated area, her breathing deep and controlled. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—Ra’s, Talia, the relentless training. She shut her eyes, trying to block out everything but the task at hand.

“Think of Ra’s and Talia,” she murmured to herself, as if summoning their expectations would sharpen her focus.

In her mind, she saw Talia’s stern face, the harsh, cutting words she’d grown accustomed to.  

“You think you’re better than me?” Talia’s voice echoed, filled with disdain.

Damian swung the katana, but the imagined figure of her mother seemed to evade her. The strike missed, the blade slicing through empty air.

“Do better, you disgrace!” Talia’s voice cut through, sharper than the blade itself. Each harsh command stung like a physical blow.

Anger surged within her, a fierce, burning sensation that drove her to swing again. But beneath that anger lay a deeper, more painful emotion—sadness. It was a raw, aching loneliness, the feeling of never being enough, of always falling short.

Her movements became more erratic, the katana swinging wildly as the frustration and sadness collided. The weight of her past, her mother’s cruelty, and her own self-imposed standards created a storm within her.

Just as her focus started to waver, Bruce’s voice broke through the chaos. “Damian, take a moment.”

She didn’t stop immediately. Her swings continued, her breaths ragged and uneven. Finally, she lowered the katana, her shoulders slumping as the anger and sadness overwhelmed her.

“I’ll be in my room,” Damian said curtly, leaving the katana on the floor as she made her way back to her room. Bruce observed the trail of blood she left behind, a sigh escaping him as he watched his son's retreating figure.

Chapter Text

Damian stumbled into her room, her breath ragged from the intense training and the emotional strain. She locked the door behind her, needing solitude to process the emotions and physical pain she was experiencing.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small lamp on the nightstand. Damian glanced at herself in the mirror, her reflection a stark reminder of her current state. She pulled off the black oversized hoodie she had been wearing, revealing the fresh bloodstains and the evidence of the earlier injury.

She stood in front of the mirror, her expression a mix of anger and sorrow. With a grim determination, she turned her attention to the wound on her shoulder. She dug her fingernails into the gash, her teeth clenched as she fought against the sharp, throbbing pain.

The sensation was intense, a mix of burning and stinging that shot through her entire arm. She didn’t flinch or pull away; she was used to enduring pain. The physical pain felt almost like a tangible distraction from the emotional rage roiling within her.

Damian’s eyes were hard as she stared at herself, her mind a swirling mess of memories, regrets, and fears. Talia’s voice, the harsh training, and her own unrelenting drive to be perfect all seemed to converge in this single moment of pain.

She continued to press her nails into the wound, the pain a reminder of her struggle, a struggle that she felt was both necessary and inescapable. The physical hurt matched the emotional weight she carried, a punishment for mistakes she couldn’t always control.

Eventually, she pulled her hand away, the sight of her bloodied fingers a grim testament to her internal battle. She took a shaky breath, her eyes now glistening with unshed tears. The wound throbbed, and she knew she needed to tend to it before it got worse.

Damian went to her small medical kit, grabbing bandages and antiseptic. Her movements were methodical as she cleaned the wound, her mind drifting to thoughts of Ra’s and Talia, her past, and the expectations that weighed heavily on her.

After she finished bandaging herself, she sat on the edge of her bed, feeling the exhaustion of the day catch up with her. The pain in her shoulder was a dull ache now, a constant reminder of her struggle. She lay back, staring at the ceiling, her thoughts clouded with the harsh reality of her situation.

Sleep was the best cure for now. 

________

Damian stayed in her room, her mind occupied with dark, twisted drawings of death and despair. The laughter and conversations from downstairs were distant and irrelevant to her, adding to her feeling of isolation. She only ventured out for lunch, but the company was more of a background noise than anything comforting.

When she woke up again, it was late, around eight o’clock. She felt a growing heaviness inside her, a mix of physical and emotional pain. The lively sounds from the living room did little to lift her spirits. Instead, she felt more disconnected than ever.

She knew she should probably join the others, if only to avoid seeming standoffish, but the thought of interacting felt like a daunting task. Instead, she wrapped herself in her oversized hoodie, trying to drown out the noise with the overwhelming sense of melancholy that had taken root inside her.

Damian got up from her bed, her mind still swirling with the shadows of her past and the relentless ache in her shoulder. As she moved through her room, she noticed the razors in the bathroom, meant for shaving. An unsettling familiarity washed over her.

She had used razors before, though not for their intended purpose. Each time someone had been angry or disappointed in her, she’d turn to her own form of punishment, using a knife to carve out her pain. The razors brought back memories of sharp relief and deep regret.

Damian hesitated, staring at the small, metallic blades. The temptation was strong, a familiar coping mechanism. But she also knew that giving in would only deepen her despair and drive her further away from the path she had set for herself.

With a deep breath, she slowly reached for it, and closed her eyes. This was something she’d never speak about…

Damian descended the stairs and entered the living room. The group was engrossed in a board game, their earlier laughter now replaced by strategic discussions. The game board was covered in colourful property cards and fake money.

Bruce looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. “Damian, everything alright?”

“Fine,” Damian replied curtly, taking a seat at the edge of the room, away from the others. She didn’t feel like joining in but was content to observe.

Jason glanced at her, his eyes still carrying traces of his earlier frustration, but he chose to focus on the game. Dick and Tim seemed absorbed in their roles, calculating their next moves and strategizing. Barbara, sitting in her wheelchair, seemed to be enjoying the game, adding a new presence. 

Damian sighed loudly. They were wasting their time with this ridiculous game. They should be training, sharpening their skills, not sitting around playing board games like children. Standing up abruptly, Damian made her way out of the living room, eyes fixed on the door.

“Where are you going?” Bruce’s voice rang out, sudden and sharp with concern.

"Out," Damian replied flatly, not bothering to look back. She placed her hand on the door handle, turning it slowly.

"You’re not going anywhere without my watch," Bruce said, his voice now carrying that edge of authority that Damian was all too familiar with. She paused for a split second, but then slowly creaked the door open anyway, defiance rising in her chest like fire. She could hear Bruce’s footsteps behind her. He was moving now, standing up quickly from the table. Damian anticipated this. The second he stood, she flung the door wide open and bolted outside, her heart racing with the thrill of rebellion.

Bruce was faster than she expected, his steps heavy behind her. The night air hit her skin like ice, but Damian didn’t stop. She pushed her legs harder, propelling herself forward into the dark, trying to outrun everything—the house, Bruce, the weight of expectations pressing on her.

“Damian! Stop!” Bruce’s voice echoed, but she ignored him, her body moving on instinct. Damian’s heart pounded in her chest as she turned to see both Bruce and Dick hot on her heels. Dick was closing the distance quickly, his years of acrobatic training showing in his effortless speed and agility. She needed to think fast.

In one fluid motion, Damian launched into a cartwheel, her body moving with practised grace. She followed it with a back handspring, propelling herself through the air faster, hoping to gain some distance. To her frustration, Dick mirrored her moves perfectly. Of course, he would—he’d been trained for this just like she had.

The gate loomed ahead, closed and unyielding. But Damian wasn’t about to let that stop her. In a split-second decision, she jumped, her body arching upward with a strength that came from years of intense training. She reached up, grabbing onto the cold metal bars, her fingers gripping tightly as she began to climb.

Four feet off the ground now, she could hear Dick’s footsteps growing louder. Damian climbed faster, her muscles burning with the effort, but she pushed through it. She had to escape. She couldn’t let them catch her. Not again.

Her mind raced, searching for a way out. At the top of the gate, she hesitated for just a moment, looking down at the distance between her and the ground on the other side.

"I’ve jumped higher before," she told herself, steeling her nerves. Without a second thought, she swung herself over the top, bracing for the impact as she prepared to land and make her escape.

“Damian!” Dick’s voice was sharp behind her as he scaled the gate with ease, jumping off in one smooth motion. Damian cursed under her breath. Of course he wouldn’t give up that easily. She knew she was faster, but Dick was relentless.

As she ran, Damian instinctively patted her pockets, hoping for something useful. Her fingers brushed against something small—a pen and a pencil. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

Without slowing her pace, Damian whipped around, eyes narrowing as she threw the pen with precision and force. It wasn’t a lethal strike, but it was aimed directly at Dick, enough to catch him off guard.

He ducked just in time, the pen grazing his shoulder as he continued his pursuit. Damian didn’t wait to see if it would slow him down. She was already turning, her legs pumping faster as she dashed toward the street ahead, her breath coming in quick, sharp bursts. She needed to find an opening, a way to disappear before Dick caught up again.

But she could hear him gaining on her, his footsteps steady and determined. He wasn’t going to stop until he had her back in that house.

"Damn it, Grayson." Damian gritted her teeth, pushing herself harder.

Damian's mind flashed back to her mother’s voice, echoing through the years: “If you’re in trouble, remember to say allah yu'inuni” She could almost feel Talia's hand on her shoulder, guiding her younger self through one of their relentless training sessions. Damian had nodded obediently then, the words imprinted in her mind like a survival instinct.

She could say it now, stop everything in its tracks, and let the chase go. But she found it amusing. 

Her feet faltered for a second, and she clenched her fists. She had always handled things on her own, taken every pain, every hit, and carried it in silence. This was no different. She didn’t need to rely on anyone.

With a sudden burst of energy, Damian leapt onto a nearby ledge, using her agility to jump to a higher surface. From there, she could escape. She felt the weight of the pencil still in her hand and flung it with a flick of her wrist at Dick again, buying her a few more seconds.

"Damian!" Dick called, this time a little more desperate. She could hear the concern in his voice, but she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t let them cage her, not when she was so close to being free. She needed space, air—control.

Chapter Text

Ahead, the shadows grew deeper as she neared a narrow alley. Damian darted into it, her pulse racing. The smell was atrocious, completely horrible. But she needed to get away. The alley led to a main street, and that’s where Damian would hide herself. By the time Dick got into the crowd, shoving people, Damian was already in another alleyway. In this alleyway, she could see three figures out. 

A man, an elderly woman, and another man were present. “No, please!” the elderly woman cried out. Damian found the situation utterly intolerable. Ra’ had always taught him that theft is a grave sin.

“Hey!” Damian shouted at the two men.

They halted momentarily to glance at her, shrugged dismissively, and continued to taunt the old woman by waving her purse in front of her. Damian clenched her teeth, her fury unmistakable. In a matter of seconds, she charged at the men and delivered a swift kick to one of them in the groyne.

The other man hurled an insult at her, but she leaped forward, seized his head, and slammed it against the brick wall. The purse tumbled to the ground, and Damian seized the chain, using it to strangle the man still reeling from the kick.

“Alright! We’ll stop!” the man yelled. She remained unfazed, tightening her grip as she began to retreat slowly, prolonging his suffering.

“You deserve punishment, and your punishment is death!” Damian shouted, yanking the chain with force. Possessing the strength of a fully grown man, she easily decapitated him. Blood splattered across her face and clothing, yet she smiled, wiping the blood from her lips.

The other man was likely unconscious, and Damian dismissed him. The elderly woman, horrified, picked up the purse from the ground and fled. Damian sighed, glancing at the severed head.

“You felt no remorse,” she stated, letting it drop. She scanned the area for onlookers and spotted Dick on a rooftop, his mouth agape in disbelief.  Damian clenched the severed head in her hand, the weight of it oddly satisfying as she swung it in Dick's direction. Blood still dripped from its neck, staining the ground at her feet. She smirked, seeing the horrified look on Dick’s face as he stood frozen on the rooftop, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Tch. Shocked, Grayson?” Damian taunted, raising the head slightly, as if offering it as a trophy.

Dick leaped down from the rooftop, his movements quick and fluid, landing first on a ladder before dropping to the alley floor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he stormed toward Damian, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and yanking her close. His face was inches from hers, eyes blazing with fury.

“What have you done?!” he growled, his voice barely containing the anger boiling beneath the surface.

Damian remained unfazed, her lips curling into a defiant smile. “What? I killed him,” she said with a casual shrug, as if she had just swatted a fly. “He deserved it.”

“That’s the problem, Damian!” Dick barked, shaking her slightly. “We. Don’t. Kill. You hear that? We don’t get to decide who lives and dies!”

Damian smirked, a sick glint in her eyes as she swung the decapitated head by the hair, as if taunting Dick. "Don't kill? Is that what your precious Bruce taught you?" she sneered. "Because in the real world, people like him," she tossed the head down at the lifeless body, "don't deserve to live."

Dick’s grip tightened on her shirt, his blue eyes fierce with anger and disbelief. “That’s not how we do things! You don’t get to decide who lives and dies.”

Damian’s smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of frustration. “He was a criminal. A thief. People like him deserve worse.”

“That’s not your call to make! Killing him doesn’t make you better than him—it makes you just like him!” Dick’s voice was harsh, but there was a desperation there, a plea for her to understand.

Damian’s lip curled in disgust. “That’s exactly what I’m meant to do. Ra’s trained me to be better than you, Grayson. Better than all of you. I’m not soft. You can’t control me.”

“Control you? Damian, this isn’t about control!” Dick’s voice cracked with desperation. “This is about you becoming the very thing you’re supposed to fight against.”

For a brief moment, her gaze faltered, the weight of his words hanging in the air. But then she pushed back against him, forcing Dick to stumble backward, though he kept his stance firm.

"Don't you dare lecture me. You don't know what I've been through. What I am," Damian growled.

“I do know!” Dick shouted, and for a moment, there was a silence between them, thick with tension. “I know exactly what it feels like to be angry. To want to hurt people. But you—” He pointed to the blood splattered across her face and clothes. “You’re letting it take over. This isn’t you. This is Ra’s and Talia in your head. But you’re better than this, Damian. You’re not a killer.”

Her chest tightened at his words, the anger bubbling up again, but underneath, there was something else—a flicker of doubt. Her hands trembled slightly, still red with the man’s blood, as memories of her mother’s lessons clashed with the world she now lived in.

“Shut up! Shut up! My mother—” Damian’s voice cracked, her fists clenched, shaking with anger.

“You’re fucking 13, Damian!” Dick interrupted, his voice firm but laced with concern. “You’re a child. Your mother killed hundreds of thousands of people just for looking at her wrong! That’s not strength, that’s cruelty!”

Damian’s glare burned into him. Child. That word felt like an insult, like he was diminishing everything she had been through, everything she had become. She wasn’t just a child. She couldn’t afford to be. Her mother, her grandfather—none of them had ever seen her as anything but a weapon.

Chapter Text

“I’m not a child,” Damian spat, her voice low, shaking with barely-contained fury. “I’m a weapon. My mother made sure of that.”

“No,” Dick shook his head, stepping closer, his gaze softening. “That’s what they told you. But you’re not a weapon. You’re not a monster. You’re a person. You don’t have to follow their path.”

Damian stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. His words sounded so foreign, like they didn’t belong to her world. She wasn’t allowed to be anything other than what she had been moulded into. Talia’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her of her purpose, her destiny. She was born to kill, to conquer.

But the look in Dick’s eyes—compassion, concern, maybe even hope—it was too much. She had to turn away, her mind spinning, trying to block out the confusion rising inside her. 

Dick pulled Damian into a tight embrace before she could react, his arms wrapping around her firmly but gently. Instinctively, Damian's body tensed, shaking beneath him. Her hands, which had been ready to strike, froze mid-air. 

No! Let me go! She wanted to scream, to push him away, to break free. But the words didn’t come. Her throat constricted, and her breath hitched. This—this was foreign. This warmth, this... care. It was nothing like what she had been taught, nothing like what she was used to. She was supposed to resist, to fight, but her body betrayed her. It didn’t know how to react to something like this.

Why? Her mind raced, confusion flooding her as she stood there, trembling in his arms. Talia never held her like this. Ra's never offered comfort. She had learned to stand alone, to never seek or expect comfort. But here, at this moment, Dick was offering something she didn’t understand.

Her breathing quickened. "Let me go," she whispered, her voice cracking, though it lacked the usual venom. She wanted to push him away, but instead, her hands just hovered, lost in uncertainty.

"I’m not letting go," Dick whispered, his voice soft, unwavering. "You don’t have to be alone, Damian. Not here."

Damian’s chest tightened. Her mind screamed at her to reject this, to fight back. But the feeling—the warmth, the safety—was something her body craved more than she wanted to admit. Her hands slowly lowered, trembling, as if unsure of their purpose.

She stayed there, still shaking but no longer fighting, confused and lost in the unfamiliar sensation of being held—being cared for.

“I’m going to have to tell Bruce,” Damian pulled away from Dick’s embrace, her eyes narrowing into a cold, sickening glare. She clenched her fists, her body stiff with anger and frustration.

"Tell him," she spat, her voice venomous. "Let him think whatever he wants. It's not like it matters. I’m not his problem. I’m not your problem."

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Damian, this isn’t about getting you in trouble. Bruce has to know. He’s going to find out eventually, and if we don’t tell him, he’ll think Gotham’s dealing with a new serial killer."

"I don’t care!" Damian shouted, stepping back, her breathing heavy. "Why should I care what he thinks? Or what you think? You think this is something I can’t handle? I’ve been trained for this—killing is all I’ve ever known!"

"That’s exactly why we need to stop it," Dick said firmly. "You don’t need to be like that anymore, Damian. You’re not a weapon. You don’t have to kill to prove yourself."

Damian scoffed, turning her back on him. "You don’t understand. You never will. You grew up in this cushy life with Bruce. I grew up with Ra’s, with Talia. This is all I know. I can comprehend.”

Dick opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself, seeing the exhaustion in Damian’s eyes. She looked worn out, not just physically, but emotionally. Whatever words he wanted to say wouldn’t help right now.

"Alright," he said quietly, his voice resigned. "Let’s get you home."

They walked in silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them. Damian kept her head down, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She hated how weak she felt, how exposed. Dick’s concern, Bruce’s inevitable disappointment—none of it was what she wanted to deal with right now.

As they approached the house, Dick glanced over at her. "You know, it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to keep running from us."

Damian didn’t respond, her eyes fixed ahead. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Not with Dick, not with Bruce—no one. She just wanted to be left alone.

When they reached the front door, Dick paused, his hand on the handle. "You’re not alone, Damian. Whether you believe it or not, we’re here for you."

She didn’t look at him. "Just open the door."

Dick sighed, pushing the door open. Damian stepped inside, not bothering to say anything else as she headed straight for her room, or the kitchen.The house felt suffocating, and all she wanted was to retreat into the only place she could be alone with her thoughts.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she exhaled a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She leaned against the wall, her body heavy with fatigue. The world outside her room felt too complicated, too full of expectations she couldn’t meet.

All she wanted was to disappear into the quiet again.

Bruce’s panic was evident in his voice as he stared at the blood-soaked pair. "What the hell happened?!"

Damian, unfazed by his outburst, simply glanced at him over her shoulder before making her way into the kitchen. She didn't even bother with an explanation, as if none of it mattered. She just wanted to sit down and be left alone. Her eyes glazed over as she slumped into a chair, staring blankly at the kitchen table.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain the situation. He barely had time to respond before Barbara wheeled into the room, her face etched with concern.

"Dick, are you okay?" she asked, her eyes scanning the bloodstains on his shirt.

Dick nodded, though the weight of what had just transpired seemed to sit heavily on his shoulders. "It’s not my blood," he muttered, shooting a glance toward Damian. "It’s his. And someone else’s."

Bruce's expression darkened, his fear quickly turning into frustration. "Someone else’s? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Tim and Jason remained frozen in the doorway, their faces pale as they took in the scene.

"Dick," Bruce’s voice was sharp, almost desperate. "Explain. Now."

Dick sighed, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the truth. "There was an altercation in an alley. Damian… he got involved." He hesitated, knowing how his next words would land. "He killed someone."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Jason finally broke it, muttering a quiet, "Damn…"

Bruce’s face twisted in disbelief. "What?" His gaze snapped to Damian, who sat motionless at the table, her hands stained with dried blood. "You killed someone?"

Damian’s eyes flickered up at him, cold and distant. "He deserved it," she said softly, almost matter-of-factly.

Bruce’s fists clenched at his sides. "Damian, you know better than that. We don’t kill. We don’t—"

"We don’t let people suffer either," Damian interrupted, her voice laced with bitterness. "We stop them. I did what needed to be done."

"You don’t get to decide that!" Bruce roared, his anger bubbling over. "You are not an executioner!"

Damian’s eyes darkened, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "I’m not? That’s not what I was raised for, right? I’m a weapon, aren’t I? You brought me here to be something I’m not."

"No, Damian," Bruce took a step toward her, his tone softening. "I brought you here to give you a chance. A chance to be more than what your mother and Ra’s trained you to be."

"A chance to be weak, you mean?" Damian shot back, her voice trembling with barely contained anger. "I don’t need your way, Bruce."

The sound of her own name, spoken without any title or acknowledgment, hit Bruce hard. She was slipping, drifting further into the identity she’d always fought against but never fully abandoned.

"You need to trust me, Damian. We can help you—"

"I don’t need help," Damian whispered, standing abruptly. "I never did."

Dick stepped forward, trying to mediate. "Dami, we’re just trying to protect you. This path—"

"I can protect myself," she hissed, her eyes darting between Bruce and Dick. "I don’t need any of you."

With that, Damian turned and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving the rest of them in stunned silence. The sound of her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she disappeared up the stairs.

Tim’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “So let me get this straight,” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “He can kill someone and somehow still get a free pass, but I get benched from being Robin?”

The room fell silent again as Tim's words hung in the air. The bitterness in his tone was impossible to miss.

Bruce turned toward him, clearly caught off guard. “Tim, this isn’t about—”

“No,” Tim interrupted, his frustration bubbling over. “It’s exactly about that! Damian does whatever he wants—stabs people, kills people—and it’s all ‘oh, he’s hurting, he needs help.’ But I make one mistake and suddenly I’m not good enough to be Robin anymore?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. “Tim, it’s not the same—”

Tim glared at Dick, his frustration boiling over. "Of course it’s not the same. He's your little project, your 'fixer-upper.' But you all act like I'm disposable. I’ve been here, doing the work, and now I’m just cast aside because he has a tragic backstory?”

Bruce stepped in, trying to calm the situation. “Tim, it’s not about choosing Damian over you. I made a decision because you needed time—”

“Time?” Tim laughed bitterly. “Time to do what? Watch him tear everything apart while you all sit here pretending it's not happening?”

Jason, leaning against the doorway, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding in front of him.

Bruce sighed, his voice heavy with frustration. “Tim, you’re right. You’ve been a great Robin. But this—what happened with Damian—is different. It’s not excusable. I’m not ignoring it. We’ll deal with it, but he’s—”

“He's dangerous, Bruce,” Tim interrupted. “And if you don’t stop him, he’s going to cross a line even you can’t bring her back from.”

Barbara watched from the corner, eyes flicking between the two, sensing that this conversation had been a long time coming. "Tim’s not wrong, Bruce," she added quietly. "This can't be brushed under the rug. Damian needs real intervention."

Bruce’s jaw tightened, clearly torn between his responsibility as a father and the realities of the situation. "I know, but he’s not the only one who needs help. None of this changes the fact that you both deserve guidance—"

“I don’t need your guidance anymore,” Tim shot back, turning to leave. “I need you to stop pretending like there’s only one Robin that matters.”

With that, Tim walked out, leaving Bruce standing there, frustration and guilt written across his face.

Chapter Text

The night stretched out before them, dark and full of potential, and Damian felt a familiar rush of adrenaline as she entered the Batcave. She shook off the weight of the day—the blood, the guilt, the feelings that tangled her heart—and focused on what lay ahead.

“Patrol,” Bruce called, his voice cutting through the heavy air of the cave. Damian followed him, her steps quickening as she felt the familiar hum of anticipation building within her.

“So, I’m becoming Robin?” she asked, casting a sideways glance at Bruce as she closed the door behind her. He nodded, the seriousness of the moment not lost on her.

“Yes, and I have a suit ready for you, with some adjustments.”

Damian shook her head, a hint of rebellion sparking in her chest. “I can’t wear a suit that someone else picked out.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow but remained silent, knowing better than to push her when she was set on her course. Without another word, she jumped down into the Batcave, landing deftly on the stone floor.

As she looked around, she saw the others already in their suits. Dick’s sleek Nightwing outfit gleamed under the cave lights, and Jason’s Red Hood ensemble was as intimidating as ever. Tim stood nearby, wearing a homemade costume that mirrored Dick’s but had its own unique flair. Damian chose not to comment on it, realising they all had their battles to fight tonight.

“What are the codenames?” she asked, walking over to the table where her new suit was laid out, the fabric almost shimmering with potential.

“Jason is Red Hood, Dick is Nightwing, and Tim…” Bruce paused for effect, “Tim is now Red Robin.”

Damian nodded, her expression serious as she considered the weight of their names. Each codename held history and expectation. “What about her?” she asked, pointing at Barbara, who was in her wheelchair, focused and ready.

“Barbara is Oracle,” Bruce replied, his tone filled with respect.

“Oracle?” Damian echoed, intrigued. “Sounds important.”

“It is,” Barbara said, a smirk playing on her lips. “I’ll be your eyes and ears out there. You’ll need my help.”

“I don’t need help,” Damian shot back, her pride flaring.

“Everyone needs help,” Bruce interjected, a firm note in his voice. “You’re not alone in this, Damian. Remember that.”

Damian took off the black sweater, pushing it aside on the floor with little thought. Her chest was tightly wrapped in bandages, a necessary concealment of her true self that now felt irrelevant in front of them. The gunshot wound from earlier peeked through the wrapping on her shoulder, but she ignored it. All her cuts, bruises, and the scars that marked her journey were now visible, exposed under the harsh lights of the Batcave.

Her back was a testament to the life she’d led, a roadmap of violence and survival. Faded scars crisscrossed her skin, each one telling a story that no one in the room truly understood.

Jason, standing just a few feet away, couldn’t take his eyes off her. His gaze followed every line, every cut, every deep gash that marred her body. He was silent, but his jaw was clenched, his fists balled up at his sides. Something inside him stirred—a mixture of anger and guilt. Tim, however, gave a quick glance and laughed awkwardly, trying to shake off the discomfort. For him, it was easier to brush it aside than to feel the weight of what those scars meant.

But Dick couldn’t hide his feelings. His heart ached as he looked at Damian, his youngest sibling, barely a teenager, yet already bearing the weight of a lifetime of battles. Without a word, his hand found its way to her back, his fingers gently tracing over the scars. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, as though he was afraid his sympathy might break through the walls Damian had built around herself.

Bruce stood at a distance, his expression unreadable. He watched his children, his mind racing with questions he didn’t dare ask. Who would do this to a child? Who would put her through such torment, leaving her to believe that her body was nothing more than a weapon? The guilt in his chest tightened, but he remained stoic, unsure of what to say or do.

“Did Talia do this?” Jason asked, his voice barely more than a growl, each word fueled by the quiet rage building inside him. His eyes never left Damian’s scarred back.

Damian didn’t turn around. Her voice was cold, as if recounting the details of her past was simply routine. “She shaped me. Yes, she did. At the age of ten, I had achieved the strength of a grown man.”

The words hung in the air like a weight, settling uncomfortably on everyone’s shoulders. Jason’s fists clenched tighter, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak right away. Dick’s hand had withdrawn, hanging limply by his side. Bruce’s gaze darkened, his thoughts torn between anger and guilt.

Jason pressed on, though each question seemed to cost him something. “What about Ra’s?”

Damian’s body stiffened, her fingers flexing by her side. “Of course. He... he chose where I got my next one.”

The Batcave fell into silence. The gravity of what Damian had just revealed sunk in, painting a clearer, more horrifying picture of her upbringing. Every scar wasn’t just a mark of survival—they were deliberate, a part of her training. Or worse, her punishment.

“As her son, I don’t dare to disobey,” Damian muttered, grabbing the suit and pulling it on piece by piece, her movements quick and mechanical. Bruce didn’t respond, but the silence spoke volumes. Alfred, standing nearby, offered her a gentle look, full of understanding and concern, though Damian pretended not to notice.

To her, it didn’t matter. It was fine—everything was fine. The wounds that occasionally reopened, the scars, the pain. She had been trained to handle all of it. The physical hurt was nothing compared to what she was used to, and emotional discomfort was something she had buried long ago.

“I’m ready,” Damian announced, pushing past the others toward the Batcomputer, her eyes already scanning the screen.

Jason crossed his arms, watching her with a frown. “You sure about that, Demon? You’re bleeding through half your bandages.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped back without missing a beat, not even bothering to look at him. She knew her wounds were still raw, but it didn’t matter. The mission was the only thing that did.

Dick sighed, exchanging another glance with Bruce. The concern was written all over their faces, but they knew Damian wouldn’t respond to it. She was too hardened, too closed off.

“I’ll live, won’t I?” Damian shot back, her voice dismissive as she shook her head, tightening her grip on the edge of the console.

Tim, sensing the tension and wanting to get out of the situation, sighed loudly. “Can we go already?” he asked impatiently, adjusting his Red Robin suit.

Chapter Text

Bruce gave a nod, though his eyes lingered on Damian for a moment longer. “Alright. Everyone knows their assignments. Stay in contact,” he ordered, his tone sharp, signaling that the discussion was over for now.

The team moved toward their respective vehicles, but Damian, still steeling herself against their looks, was the first to leap toward her Batcycle. As she mounted it, her mind raced. These people—her supposed family—kept trying to pull her into their world. A world that wanted her to feel, to heal.

But that wasn’t her path. 

She gunned the engine, her focus narrowed to one simple thing: the mission. Because as long as she had that, she didn’t have to think about anything else.

Bruce gave one last glance at her retreating figure, his expression unreadable. “Keep an eye on him” he said quietly to Dick.

“Always,” Dick responded, watching his little sister disappear into the Gotham night.

_____

“Nightwing, where’s Eighth Street?” Damian asked, her voice cutting through the static of the intercom as the roar of her motorcycle engines reverberated in the night air. Her bike zipped through Gotham’s chaotic streets, headlights illuminating the narrow alleyways and looming skyscrapers.

She weaved through traffic with practiced ease, barely slowing down as the wind whistled past her.

“Take a right, then head straight down!” came the quick response from Nightwing.

His voice was almost drowned out by the sound of his own motorcycle as he leapt from one rooftop to another, his silhouette flickering in the moonlight. He was already several steps ahead, eyes scanning the streets below for any signs of trouble.

“You’ll see the street on your left after the bridge.”

Damian nodded, though no one could see her, and sharply turned his handlebars. Her bike tilted as she made the right turn, the engine growling beneath him as she accelerated into the dark expanse of the city. Her mind was already racing, focused on the mission at hand. Nothing could distract her now.

Above, the figure of Red Hood zipped by, his own motorcycle cutting through the night at high speed. He wasn’t with Robin, not this time. He had his own agenda tonight, and while they sometimes worked together, tonight was different. Jason’s dark helmet gleamed under the streetlights as he disappeared into the shadows, his path taking him in the opposite direction of Damian’s pursuit.

Nightwing glanced down briefly, his focus never faltering. His boots landed with a soft thud on the next rooftop, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the alleyways below. The night was his canvas, the city a labyrinth of rooftops, each corner hiding something.

“Keep your eyes open, Damian,” he called through the intercom, his tone sharper now, a warning. “This city doesn’t give up its secrets easily.”

Damian clenched her jaw. “I can handle myself,” she muttered under his breath. She had more than enough skill to match her mentors. And if she were being honest, she didn’t need anyone to look out for her—not when her instincts were sharper than ever. But tonight, Gotham had a way of feeling more dangerous than usual, a sense of tension hanging in the air. Her fingers gripped the throttle tighter as the streetlights blurred by.

The ambush was sudden. One moment, Damian was gliding down Gotham’s streets on her motorcycle, the city’s lights reflecting off her visor. The next, she was thrown into chaos.

A group of riders swarmed her, their bikes marked with symbols she knew all too well. The League of Assassins.

Her mother’s people.

Damian clenched her jaw, steadying her balance as one of the riders closed in.

“Robin, report!” Batman’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp with concern.

Behind her, Red Robin and Batman were gaining, but she didn’t respond. If she hesitated, Bruce would take control. If she engaged without thinking, she’d confirm every fear he had about her.

One of the assassins veered closer, keeping pace with her. His helmet obscured his face, but his voice was clear.

“Ibn al Xu’ffasch.” Son of the Bat.

Damian’s grip tightened on the handlebars.

“Stand down and come with us,” the assassin commanded. His tone was eerily calm. “Your place isn’t with them.”

Her heart pounded.

She tapped her comm. “I have this under control.”

“The hell you do!” Red Robin snapped.

Batman’s voice was colder. “Robin. Fall back.”

But Damian didn’t.

Instead, she cut her speed just enough to throw off her pursuers. Then, in a blur of movement, she leapt from her bike—landing directly onto the assassin’s.

The impact sent them both rocking, but she locked an arm around his neck before he could react. “What does my mother want?” she growled in his ear.

The assassin tensed but didn’t struggle. “She wants you home. Before it’s too late.”

Too late?

Damian’s grip faltered for just a second—long enough for the assassin to yank the emergency brake. The bike skidded violently, throwing them both.

Damian hit the pavement hard, pain flaring in her shoulder as she rolled to a stop. She barely had time to react before a shadow loomed over her.

Batman.

He grabbed her by the collar, yanking her upright. His grip was tight, his fury burning beneath the cowl.

“What the hell was that?!”

Damian ripped herself free, stumbling back a step. “I had it under control.”

“No, you didn’t,” Bruce snapped. His voice was dangerously low. “You were reckless.”

Damian wiped at the blood on her lip, glaring. “They were League. I needed to know why they were here.”

“And nearly got yourself killed doing it,” Red Robin cut in, stepping beside Batman.

Damian ignored him. Her mind was racing. Before it’s too late. What did that mean?

“We need to get back to the Cave,” Batman ordered. “Now.”

Damian wanted to argue, but the look in Bruce’s eyes made her stop. He knew something she didn’t.

Fine. She’d play along.

For now.

———

Dick let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “Why did we even come back so soon?”

“It was Damian—he was reckless!” Tim snapped, pulling off his mask and throwing it onto the table.

Damian scowled, crossing her arms. “I was handling it.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched as he turned away from the Batcomputer, his cape shifting behind him. “Handling it?” His voice was sharp, controlled but heavy with frustration. “Damian, what the hell were you thinking?”

Damian yanked off her mask, throwing it onto the table beside Dick’s. “I was thinking that I could handle myself,” she shot back, her voice clipped. “And I did.”

Jason scoffed, shaking his head as he removed his helmet. “Yeah? ‘Cause from where I stood, it looked like you were about two seconds from getting yourself killed.”

Tim crossed his arms, leaning against the Batmobile. “Or worse—getting one of us killed. You broke formation. If we hadn’t pulled you out, what do you think would’ve happened?”

Damian’s fists curled at her sides. “I know those men,” she muttered. “They weren’t random thugs. They were Mother’s.”

The room fell into a weighted silence. Bruce’s expression darkened. “Talia?”

She gave a stiff nod. “They had her insignia on their bikes. They weren’t trying to kill me,” she admitted, her voice wavering just slightly before she steeled herself. “They were testing me.”

Dick let out a heavy breath, rubbing his temples. “And you were just gonna let them?” His tone wasn’t angry—just tired.

“What else was I supposed to do?” Damian snapped. “If I fought them the way I wanted, you all would’ve stopped me! If I ignored them, they would’ve just kept coming!”

Bruce turned fully, his gaze pinning her in place. “And what do you think happens now? You engaged with them. You gave them exactly what they wanted. They know where you are.”

“I see them more as family than you ever will!” Damian snapped, cutting off Bruce before he could finish. “Let them know where I am! I don’t care!”

Bruce’s expression darkened, his patience wearing thin. “You don’t mean that.”

Damian let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, I do. They raised me. They trained me. They didn’t lie to me about who I am!”

“They didn’t raise you, Damian,” Dick said, his voice softer but unwavering. “They built you. There’s a difference.”

“Tch.” Damian turned away, crossing her arms. “And what are you all supposed to be? A dysfunctional group of strays pretending to be a family? You’ll never understand.”

Jason, who had been watching silently, scoffed. “Oh, we understand, demon. We’ve all had our fair share of messed-up childhoods. But you don’t see us running back to the people who broke us.”

Damian’s fists clenched. She wanted to argue, to yell, to prove them all wrong—but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way.”

She pushed past them, heading up the stairs without looking back. The Batcave fell into an uneasy silence.

Dick sighed, rubbing his face. “This is bad.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“He’lll go back to them,” Jason muttered. “It’s not a matter of if—it’s when.”

Chapter Text

____

Tim crossed his arms, frowning. “He’s going to run straight back to them. I’m telling you, the League still has hooks in him.”

Jason scoffed. “Great. So we’re just supposed to sit here while mini-Ra’s goes rogue?”

Dick shook his head, tossing his gloves on the table. “He’s scared. Lashing out. He thinks we don’t want him here.”

Bruce remained silent, eyes locked on the last known GPS ping from Damian’s tracker.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Jason muttered. “He decapitated someone like it was nothing. That’s not scared, that’s trained.”

“But not trained by us,” Dick replied. “He doesn’t even know what trust looks like. He’s only ever known control.”

Tim leaned on the console. “So what? We just let him keep spiraling until someone else gets hurt?”

Bruce finally spoke. “No. We find him before the League does. He’s our responsibility now.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “He’s not a damn puppy.”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “No. He’s a soldier trained to think he’s a weapon. But he’s still a child. And I won’t let the League take him back.”

___

Damian stormed into her room and slammed the door behind her, the sound echoing down the hall like a gunshot. Her hands were shaking. Why now? Why would the League come for her?

She needed to find out on her own.

Her so-called brothers weren’t going to help—not when two of the three could barely look at her without contempt. Damian clenched her jaw, standing in the center of her room, the letter still crumpled in her fist.

Jason would mock her for being soft. Tim would tell Bruce. And Dick… Dick would just try to understand her, and that somehow felt worse.

No. This was her burden.

Her mother may have been many things—ruthless, cold, impossible to please—but she wasn’t reckless. Talia never sent a squad with League insignias out in the open unless she wanted to be seen. That wasn’t like her.

So why?

The warning in the letter rang again in her mind:

“The world you left behind is about to burn.”

A setup? A coup? Was Ra’s losing control?

Damian reached for her boots and strapped on a few hidden blades, slipping a black hoodie over her chest bindings and wrapping her scarf around her lower face. She didn’t need the Bat’s permission. She just needed answers.

She crept toward the balcony outside her room, making sure no one was outside. Her hands were steady as she climbed down the side of the manor. Silent. Invisible.

If she wanted to understand what was going on, there was only one place to go—

The Watchtower’s rogue signal archives? No. Too monitored.

The Iceberg Lounge? Noisy, but…

Her fingers tapped her pocket. The pen drive she swiped from the body of one of the riders still rested there.

There’s only one place where League chatter still floats unfiltered.

She slipped into the shadows.

She was going back to the docks.

Back to the underworld.

And if someone followed her?

Then they’d learn—Damian Wayne doesn’t run. She hunts. But she’d wait.

______

The next day came with a harsh knock.

“Damian,” Dick’s voice called through the door, muffled but firm. “Get up. Now.”

Damian groaned softly into her pillow, not out of fatigue but frustration. Her body ached from the late-night excursion—bruises she didn’t have time to treat, scrapes that stung beneath her bandages. She hadn’t even bothered to rebind her chest properly. Her hair was a mess, strands clinging to her face as she forced herself to sit up.

Another knock—this time, more insistent.

She unlocked the door, cracking it open slightly.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, voice hoarse. She turned quickly before he could get a full look at her, tugging the hoodie down over her hips and retying the strings at her neck. She didn’t want him seeing the sweat-soaked bandages or the way her jaw clenched when she moved.

Dick didn’t enter. He stood in the doorway, watching her carefully.

After a long, quiet stretch, he finally spoke.

“Why would your mother come after you?”

Damian froze mid-step.

The question wasn’t laced with anger like Bruce’s, or mocking like Jason’s. It was soft. Wary. Like he wanted to understand, but didn’t know how.

Damian’s hands tightened at her sides. She couldn’t look at him.

“She wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “Not unless she had no choice.”

“But you think she sent those guys after you?”

“I know her insignia. I know her tactics. And I know when something isn’t right.” Damian finally turned, just enough for Dick to see the circles under her eyes. “This isn’t her style.”

“Then whose is it?” he asked gently.

Damian didn’t answer.

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can help, you know. You don’t have to go chasing shadows alone.”

She scoffed, picking up a pair of gloves from the dresser. “You can’t help. None of you can. This is League business. And the League is mine.”

Dick opened his mouth to respond—but then thought better of it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You missed breakfast. Alfred saved you some.”

Damian’s shoulders lowered just a little.

“…Tell him I’ll eat later.”

And with that, she shut the door softly behind him.

Damian stood at the top of the staircase for a moment, watching the way the morning light spilled in through the windows. It felt too peaceful—wrongly peaceful. Her fists clenched at her sides.

If the League was reaching out—actively hunting her down—it could only mean one thing: something was wrong. Very wrong. And if her mother wasn’t the one ordering the pursuit, then someone else had taken authority. Someone with enough power to send operatives into Gotham under her insignia.

She couldn’t sit around and wait for answers in a house full of people who either pitied her or hated her. She needed to act. But… how?

Talia wouldn’t allow herself to appear vulnerable. She wouldn’t send anyone for her unless the League itself was compromised. Damian knew the signs—splinter factions, civil unrest. A power shift.

If she didn’t return soon, she might not have a place to return to.

She sighed again, quietly, then straightened herself, slipping into a fresh black long-sleeve shirt and fitted pants. She adjusted her bandages beneath the fabric with trained, practiced fingers and slid into the hallway.

Downstairs was busy with mundane routine—something she no longer trusted.

Tim was on the couch, a laptop open in front of him, glasses sliding down his nose. His schoolbag was on the floor, untouched.

Dick and Jason were in the kitchen, talking quietly with Alfred. Their postures were relaxed—almost too relaxed, considering what had happened the night before.

Alfred was the first to notice her.

“Master Damian!” he called cheerfully, as though everything were normal. “Seems you’ve woken from your slumber.”

Damian offered a nod, her expression unreadable.

“Didn’t think you were gonna show your face today,” Jason muttered with a raised brow, sipping from a mug.

“Didn’t think you were still here,” she fired back, brushing past him and heading toward the cabinet for something to eat.

Dick gave Jason a look, clearly telling him to back off. Jason only shrugged.

Alfred approached Damian with a plate of food. “You missed breakfast, but I anticipated you might be hungry regardless.”

She took it without a word, then sat at the far end of the table.

“So, demon,” Jason said casually, a smirk tugging at his mouth, “why’d your mom come after you?”

Damian didn’t flinch. She didn’t look up. Instead, she focused on the food in front of her, chewing slowly and deliberately. She wasn’t going to answer a question she didn’t have the answer to.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Taking a vow of silence now?”

“Nice response,” Tim added with a sarcastic grin.

“I don’t know,” Damian said quietly, without looking at them. Her voice was flat, careful. “She doesn’t act without purpose.”

Dick, seated beside Alfred, leaned forward. “You think something’s wrong with the League?”

Damian hesitated. Her gaze stayed glued to the plate, but her mind was racing.

“She wouldn’t send someone after me unless things were falling apart,” she said, her voice slightly firmer. “Or unless she needed something I have.”

“What do you have?” Tim asked, squinting. “Loyalty issues and a superiority complex?”

Damian shot him a glare, but said nothing. Patrol was happening again tonight, it’ll all be explained.

Chapter Text

Night cloaked the city in a blanket of smog and neon light. The Bat-Family was out in full force, each suited in their gear, each covering different sectors of Gotham. Damian, dressed in her newly adjusted Robin uniform, sat on her bike—silent, focused, and restless. Bruce had made it clear: she was to stay with them, to patrol only for minor disturbances. Nothing solo. No League business.

But Damian couldn’t shake the unease crawling beneath her skin.

She scanned every alley, rooftop, and street corner. Just petty crime. No sign of the League. Nothing out of place. She nearly told herself to relax, to stop being paranoid—

Then she felt it.

That same chill that used to creep down her spine before a blade was drawn at her back. Her eyes snapped upward.

There—perched silently on a rooftop across the street—was a figure cloaked in the traditional garb of the League of Assassins. Their mask glinted faintly in the moonlight. They stood still, as if waiting to be seen.

Damian’s stomach twisted. No time to call the others.

Without a word, she jumped off her bike and fired her grappling hook, zipping upward. Her cape fluttered behind her as she landed on the roof, knees bent. The League member was already turning away, starting to run.

“Wait!” Damian shouted, giving chase.

They leapt across the rooftops with terrifying grace—whoever they were, they were trained like her. She narrowed her eyes, pushing her body harder, faster. Her legs burned, but she didn’t stop. This wasn’t just another agent.

This was someone who wanted to be seen.

The figure finally skidded to a halt at the edge of a warehouse roof. Damian landed a few feet behind them, drawing a batarang.

“Why are you following me? What does the League want?”

The figure slowly turned. A woman. Masked, but familiar in stature. The silence between them dragged, thick and heavy.

“The League is in trouble. Ra’s is… he’s sick,” she said quietly. “Your mother is heartbroken, and… she fears the Lazarus Pit may not work this time. She wanted you to be the next heir, in case he… in case he dies.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Damian blinked, heart suddenly thudding in her ears. She took an instinctive step back. The rooftops, the city, the cold—all of it faded in comparison to the weight that dropped into her chest like stone.

Damian’s chest tightened as the woman’s words settled like poison in her mind. The League is in trouble. Ra’s is sick. She wants me to be the heir.

But all Damian felt was anger — anger at being dragged into something she didn’t want, and anger at the life she’d tried to escape.

“I just got here,” Damian spat, voice trembling but fierce. “I hate this place. I hate pretending. I don’t belong here.”

The woman’s eyes softened for a moment, but she only said, “Your mother needs you. The League needs you. Whether you like it or not.”

Damian’s hands curled into fists. Her whole body screamed to run — not from the League, but to it. Back to the place she’d known all her life, where she wasn’t pretending to be someone else.

 “I’m going back,” she whispered, barely louder than the night breeze. “But not yet.”

The woman’s eyes softened at the hesitation. “But give me a sign — a signal at night,” Damian asked, her voice low and urgent.

The woman nodded solemnly. “Of course, Master,” she said before leaping off the rooftop, disappearing into the shadows.

Damian noticed her comlink buzzing with incoming calls from Batman, but she ignored them all, refusing to respond.

Damian stood alone on the rooftop, the cold wind tugging at her cape and messy hair. The weight of what she had just learned settled heavily on her chest. She hated being stuck here, away from where she truly belonged, but she wasn’t ready to return—not yet.

Her fingers tightened around her grappling hook’s handle as she stared out into the night. Somewhere out there, her mother and the League were waiting, hoping she’d come back to take her place. But Damian had no intention of rushing into their world unprepared.

She needed time. Time to build her strength, to figure out where she stood between the family she knew and the ones she’d left behind.

Her comlink buzzed again, more insistent this time. She ignored it, letting it fade into the silence.

Well, she couldn’t leave it silent forever.

Eventually, the quiet buzz in her comms turned into footsteps—heavy, controlled, familiar. Batman emerged from the shadows of the rooftop, Red Hood right behind him. The tension in their stances said everything before either of them spoke.

“Why the hell do you keep disappearing? Every damn time!” Jason’s voice cracked like thunder, frustration pouring from every word.

Damian didn’t flinch. She scoffed under her breath, turning away from them without so much as a response. She leapt from the rooftop, cape fluttering like a shadow behind her, landing with precision next to her parked motorcycle.

She mounted it without hesitation. Of course they’d follow her. They always did. But she didn’t care. She wasn’t running — not tonight. She was going home, to the Batcave. If this conversation was inevitable, she’d rather it happen on her terms. With everyone there.

The engine of her bike growled through the streets, echoing through alleyways as she cut corners, flying past red lights like they were suggestions. Gotham’s cold wind hit her face, but she didn’t slow down. Not even when she heard Batman’s voice bark through the comms.

“Robin. Pull over. Now.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. The Batcave was in sight. That was all that mattered.

By the time she reached the hidden entrance, she could already hear the engines of the Batmobile and Red Hood’s bike not far behind. Damian raced through the hidden tunnel, tires skidding slightly as she came to a hard stop inside the cave.

She jumped off the bike, pulled off her helmet, and tossed it aside like it meant nothing. Her hair, messy and damp with sweat, stuck to her forehead. She didn’t bother fixing it. Footsteps echoed behind her as Batman and Jason followed.

Alfred stood near the Batcomputer, startled by the sudden arrival. Dick and Tim turned at the sound, both still in partial gear. Everyone looked at her.

Damian stood at the center of them all, her chest rising and falling as the silence stretched too long.

Bruce was the first to speak. “Where were you?”

She didn’t look at him. “Out.”

“You vanished. Again,” he growled, stepping closer. “You ignored comms. You broke formation. You’re reckless.”

“I’m not one of your soldiers,” she snapped, her voice low but laced with fire. “I’m not like you.”

“No, you’re not,” Bruce shot back. “Because I don’t lie about where I go. I don’t disappear in the middle of patrol. What’s going on, Damian?”

Jason folded his arms. “If this is about the League, just say it. We’re not stupid.”

“Nothing!” Damian exclaimed, her voice growing higher. “I was in a situation but it’s dealt with, now get over it,” 

Damian's eyes flashed with defiance, but Bruce's stern expression didn't waver. "Not good enough, 

Damian," he said, his voice firm but controlled. "We need to know what's going on. You're part of this team, and we rely on each other."

Dick and Tim exchanged a glance, both of them looking concerned. Jason, on the other hand, seemed intrigued, his eyes fixed on Damian with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

"Come on, Demon," Jason said, his voice laced with a hint of teasing. "Talk. What's got you so riled up?"

Damian looked at Jason with a stern expression. She grabbed a nearby knife and threw it straight at Jason, only missing by a few inches.

“I would’ve pierced your heart,” Damian yelled, before ripping off her Robin costume, irritated by the rough fabric against her skin.

The sound of tearing fabric filled the air as Damian yanked off her costume, revealing a latticework of scratches and bruises on her skin. Jason's grin faltered, and he took a step back, eyes wide with surprise. 

"No need to be all rough," he said, holding up his hands in a mockingly gesture.

Bruce strode forward, his face set in a stern mask. "Damian, that's enough," he said, his voice firm but controlled. "You're going to hurt someone."

But Damian was beyond reason. She spun around, her eyes blazing with anger and frustration. "You don't get it," she spat, her voice venomous. "You never get it."

“We don’t get it because you don’t open up!” Dick finally shouted, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re my baby brother—our little bat—but we can’t help you if you don’t let us!”

Damian’s jaw tightened. Baby brother. The words dug beneath her skin like thorns, not because they were wrong, but because they were close. Too close. She wasn’t anyone’s baby anything. Not really. And yet…

Something stirred in her chest, unfamiliar and hot. Guilt? Regret? She scowled, as if the expression could crush the feeling out of existence. Why should she feel guilty? They didn’t understand her. Couldn’t. She was an outsider wearing a borrowed role, one that didn’t quite fit no matter how sharply she played the part.

Still, Dick’s voice—it lingered in her ears longer than she wanted it to. He was always too earnest, too soft in the way he cared, like she was someone to be saved instead of respected. That was the problem. That had always been the problem.

Leaving would fix that. Leaving would restore clarity. She had a mission—one too dangerous, too personal to be tangled in family sentiment. She would disappear soon. A week, maybe a month. Long enough for the pain to fade.

“Whatever,” she muttered, brushing past him like nothing had cracked inside. “Just stop yelling. It’s pathetic.”

Dick caught her wrist—but gently, as if afraid she’d shatter. “Damian… I’m scared for you.”

She didn’t turn around. “Then stop wasting your time.”

Dick watched as Damian fled upstairs, the sound of her retreating footsteps echoing down the hall like a warning shot. The tension she left behind seemed to suck the air out of the room. Jason let out a long, tired sigh and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. Tim, meanwhile, just shrugged with all the passive-aggressive subtlety of a dagger to the gut.

“Whose idea was it to bring an assassin into this family, anyway?” Tim muttered, deliberately loud enough to carry.

Bruce’s eyes snapped to him—not sharp, not defensive. Just unreadable. That was always worse. The silence that followed made the air feel heavier, like a storm about to break.

“It wasn’t mine,” Bruce said flatly, his voice quiet but unyielding.

Upstairs, pressed against the stairwell wall just out of sight, Damian stood frozen. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t meant to listen. Not really. But the sound of her name—well, not her name, exactly, but the accusation—it anchored her in place like a blade through the heel.

An assassin.

That’s all she was to them. Still. Even after all the missions, the training, the sacrifices, the effort to be normal, to fit into a role she was never built for. Her fists clenched.

Fine. Let them think that.

She turned and stalked down the hall to her room, her boots silent against the floor. Her expression was blank, carefully arranged like armor, but inside, her chest burned.

If they were so eager to see her gone…

Maybe she’d give them what they wanted.

Sooner than planned.

Chapter Text

Hey yall, super random but my iPad broke!!! That’s where I write this fic, and also my basement got flooded! Yes I’m very joyous. But seriously, new chapters will be coming out hopefully by next week. Depends when my iPad gets fixed <3 

THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT THO!!

Chapter Text

Hey guys, I’ve wanted to start out by staying I have lost motivation to write f!damian Wayne.

HOWEVERRRR I’ve been wanting to make my own story about a rookie detective in Gotham, almost like a side story for an OC that takes place in the DC universe.

I already have my lore behind the main character, and I can’t wait to make more characters backstory. Would you guys want to read that? Yes it will feature characters inside of DC such as the Batfam and of course villains (which I also want make new ones ^_^).

Would you guys actually be interested about hearing this rookie detective that is trying to navigate the crimes of Gotham city after the recent death of a close friend?

There might lots of questions to answer about this, but I’m excited about this!