Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.
It was an ordinary night. Nightwing and Oracle were having a brief reunion in Blüdhaven, so Red Robin was covering Oracle's shift. Robin was off on another "my dad's a superhero, my mom's a terrorist, who am I" self-discovery journey. Red Hood was maintaining his guns and helmet in his safehouse. Stephanie and Cassandra were having a girls' nail-painting night, explicitly declaring they wouldn't respond unless Gotham's destruction scale exceeded one-third.

Of course, no one destroyed even a third of Gotham tonight. The city's destruction level perfectly matched its average self-destruct rate, maybe even slightly lower. In short—it was a peaceful night. Batman leisurely patrolled rooftops for exercise, while Red Robin, half his brain already asleep, monitored the comms.

"Activity, Batman." Red Robin suddenly said. "Crime Alley."

Batman paused mid-stride, redirected his grapple gun. His cape unfurling into the silhouette of Gotham's nightmare.

"Two people robbing... the Joker?" Red Robin's tone lifted in confusion, his dormant half-brain awakening. "Or a convincing Joker impersonator—no, it's the actual Joker. He just blew them up."

Indeed, it was the Joker. Such was the peace tonight that even the Clown Prince of Crime went for a stroll. This living urban legend, Voldemort-level taboo in Gotham's underworld, now found two wet-behind-the-ears high schoolers pressing guns to his back. Their logic being: true criminal legends never appear before you; anyone who does must be a pretender.

The Joker even waited a beat—no heroic vigilantes arrived. Shaking his head, he casually turned them into crimson fireworks against Gotham's night sky. Not even bothering with a punchline—this was too trivial, arguably self-defense. Maybe even GCPD wouldn't file it under his resume. Tonight, the Joker simply wanted to take a walk. No grand schemes, just... walking.

Emerging from the alley, a rope lashed out—swish, swish, swish—and suddenly the Joker dangled upside-down from a streetlamp like a deranged piñata. He chuckled politely. Whether to resist depended on how entertaining tonight's Bat might be.

The Bat descended soundlessly beside the two crimson stains, his cape dragging through still-warm viscera. His boot nudged a discarded handgun—the standard-issue trash flooding Gotham's streets, used by 60% of rookie muggers. Including one from his memories. This very gun had been dropped when its late owner realized he might've met the actual Joker, miraculously intact.

Hmm. Batman thought.

"Possible trap. Need backup?"

"Red Robin, disable all nearby surveillance."

Oracle would've asked "What are you planning?" first. Red Robin did ask, but obeying Batman remained a Robin-era reflex. Even as he questioned, his fingers already severed every camera feed—government-installed, vigilante-hidden, all gone.

"Batman offline."

Bruce Wayne—wearing a tank top, boxers, and garish woolen socks (courtesy of Dick)—picked up the gun. He tossed his blood-dripping costume and comm into the Batmobile, then ordered the vehicle home via Bruce Wayne's phone. The Joker watched curiously as Gotham's prince walked over, pressed the gun between his own eyes, and fired. That amused grin never left his face.

Bruce safetied the weapon, placed it by his feet, and dialed 911.

Half a ring. He felt smug.

"This is Bruce Wayne."

"This is the Joker!" The dispatcher snarled. "Call again and I'll blow your—"

Click. Dial tone.

Mr. Wayne glanced at the headshot Joker beside him, then decisively called Commissioner Gordon's private line.

"Hello Commissioner!" He adopted the trademark Wayne cheer, lesson learned.

Gordon held the receiver away, sighed dramatically, then spoke. He might not realize Bruce heard everything, or didn't care.

"What now, Mr. Wayne?"

"I shot the Joker~"

"I'm busy. Don't joke about this."

Click. Dial tone.

"..."

The night wind whipped through foil wrappers left by addicts. Bruce shivered. Steeling himself, he redialed. The tone dragged on—he could picture Gordon glaring at the phone, debating yanking the cord. But for the sake of the underfunded GCPD, the commissioner answered.

"Mr. Wayne—"

"Send officers to Crime Alley immediately." Bruce spoke rapidly. "This concerns whether GCPD gets new bulletproof vests in the next six months."

Success.

"My god, Bruce." The Wayne heir took two calming breaths before turning to face Red Robin—freshly arrived, rendered speechless by the scene.

"What have you done?"

2.

The Red Hood parties all night until dawn, except when he's sleeping.

Unlike those exciting nights, if someone disturbs him on a night meant for sleep, he will get really, really irritable, not the kind of irritability like "I'm upholding justice and righteousness."

Tonight is one of those nights.

"Hey, Big Red!" Red Robin skipped the answering part and directly shouted through his communicator, "The Joker's dead!"

Jason, with his face buried in the pillow, replied, "Your mom's dead!"

Then he swept the communicator onto the floor. It won't break anyway, made by the Bat-family, quality assured.

Red Robin continued to shout, "The Joker is really dead! As dead as my mom!"

Jason struggled to sit up, lifting his upper body with great effort to look at the communicator because he just didn't want to move.

"How did he die?"

"Bruce blew his head off with one shot!"

"Fuck you."

Jason threw a pillow at the communicator, relaxed his back muscles, and settled back into his position, muting Red Robin in his mind and returning to the warehouse in his dream to give Black Mask a sweet smile and say, "Let's continue."

"Bruce Wayne killed him!" Red Robin's projection hovered above the pillow, his voice muffled from underneath, "Not Batman!"

Jason let out a slow snore.

He suddenly leaped out of bed like a fish, kicking the pillow away and grabbing the communicator.

"You heard me." Red Robin's tone was cold, "Besides, I don't think your safe house is secure enough for you to sleep naked. Do you really not realize you're being filmed by four cameras from all angles?"

"Fuck you," the Red Hood said with the same poise as any street kid, "What's he up to?"

Red Robin ended the communication.

3.

Tim's mother had received enough condolences tonight, thank you for your concern, so he left the task of notifying Nightwing to Jason, who was now dressed.

"Little Wing, first of all, I'm touched that you took the initiative to contact your big brother, even though it's one in the morning—"

"Hey, Dickie Bird." Jason looked straight at the screen and said, "Do I look high to you?"

Dick paused for a moment before answering, "Yes."

It made sense.

"..." Jason said, "I'm not, so we've got a big problem now."

"What's wrong?" Dick got out of bed, the image shook, revealing a lot of skin, and Barbara, wrapped in a blanket, appeared beside him.

"We can be there in an hour at the most," the red-haired girl said, "Do you need backup?"

"Hard to say," Jason replied, "Old man took out the Joker."

Dick didn't hang up; he smashed the communicator.

4.

They decided to call Cassandra because Black Bat wouldn't freak out.

But they forgot that Cass's ringtone was set by Stephanie, who had also forgotten about it.

When a screaming high-pitched sound echoed through the room, Stephanie was painting a six-petaled flower on Cass's left middle fingernail, and her hand trembled, causing the petal to grow a little tail.

Cass disabled the communicator with the brush.

"Love you, Steph." Tim said to her after Stephanie answered, "Now please give the communicator to Cass."

5.

"Back now," Cass said, cutting off the communication.

Two hours later, Damian burst into the Batcave with snow and wind from the end of the world on him, wielding a knife at her.

No human or communication device was harmed this time.

Dawn broke.

Chapter Text

6.

The surveillance footage that the police could obtain only showed a trivial episode before the incident, not even worth a joke from the Joker. There were more clues from inside the Batcave, but only that Batman had walked up to the suspended Joker, and then it was when Red Robin noticed something was wrong, restored the feed, and saw the big hole in the Joker's face, while Bruce Wayne dropped the gun and started making a call. The sequence of events during the incident was blank, thanks to Red Robin's usual professionalism.

"I kept the part where the Joker killed people because it might be beneficial to Bruce. The Joker just blew up two people in front of you, so obviously you'd be more inclined to think you're next." He explained, "I deleted all the footage from then on. If only the middle part where the Joker was killed was missing, it would look like a premeditated crime. But if everything after the Joker's appearance was gone, maybe it could be explained as the Joker hacking the surveillance to kidnap Bruce or something."

"Genius." Red Hood sat on the surgical wheelchair with his hood in his arms and sneered, "After the surveillance went dark, the Joker was hanging upside down from a streetlight with a hole in his head. What does that look like?"

"It's better to implicate Batman than Bruce. Anyway, this isn't the first murder case pinned on Batman." Red Robin replied, and then paused, "Ah, but Bruce Wayne has also been arrested several times on suspicion of murder."

"Really?" Jason raised an eyebrow. "When I was still dead?"

"Wait, are we starting with a self-defense plea?" Nightwing sat on the control console with one leg curled up on the edge and the other hanging down. His body was turned towards Red Robin, who seemed like he never intended to leave his seat. "Based on the fact that Bruce did shoot the Joker? I mean, Bruce, a gun, killing someone? Am I the only one who knows him here?"

Robin stood by Nightwing's leg with his arms crossed angrily in front of his chest. "My father has been framed! And it's all because of your incompetence, Drake! If I—"

"Shut up." Red Hood scolded. Nightwing slid off the console before Robin could lash out at him and locked the angry child in a tight hold with his limbs, covering his mouth.

"What the hell is going on, replacement?" Red Hood walked straight towards Red Robin as if he hadn't noticed, and the latter turned his chair to face him, allowing him to approach to a threatening distance. "I don't believe that bullshit. Tell me the truth."

"I've already told you, like everyone else here, I didn't actually see what happened." Red Robin said in a flat, monotonous tone. "Batman ordered the surveillance cut, and I obeyed. Then he didn't explain but went offline directly. I think he might have encountered a situation that required backup, so rode the Redbird to Crime Alley. When I found that the trackers on the Batmobile and Batsuit were both on their way back, I restored the surveillance feed and saw what you just saw."

"And the Batmobile had Batman's equipment and communicator, but not Batman himself." Stephanie sat on the hood of the Batmobile and continued. She had taken off her mask, and her blonde hair fell over her shoulders. After arriving at the Batcave, she spent the longest time checking the contents of the car. "I don't get it. Whoever killed the Joker, what does it have to do with him taking off his clothes?"

"Maybe he was threatened—"

"It can't be Batman." Black Bat interrupted Nightwing. She sat cross-legged on the roof of the car. Her full-face mask concealed all her expressions, but it was basically certain that she was still staring at the frozen screen where Bruce Wayne, wearing handcuffs, was bending down to get into the police car.

"What?"

"Batman doesn't kill people." Black Bat said slowly. "It has to be Bruce."

"The Joker was already dead when I arrived. There were a few small-time crooks nearby, but they were basically unrelated to the incident." Red Robin still had that flat, mechanical tone. He had repeated the "report-answer" process at least five times. "B sounded like he just finished talking to Gordon. All signs indicate that he picked up the guns of those two robbers and killed the Joker. Do you agree, Cass?"

"Yes." Black Bat replied.

The Batcave was silent for a few seconds, and then Robin exploded.

7.

Of the three crooks loitering near Crime Alley at that time, two were associates of the two who had their fireworks set off by the Joker. However, they had multiple prison terms under their belts and were too experienced to go near anything that looked like the Joker. The other one was a member of the Joker's gang, but he had only joined three days ago and had only stolen cigarettes from a convenience store once.

After being punched and interrogated by the fierce Robin for hours in broad daylight, they might all reconsider their life choices.

8.

The moment Gordon saw the crime scene, he foresaw the tsunami of public opinion that this incident would trigger. He immediately dispatched tight-lipped officers to form a task force and issued a new notice (with threats) on confidentiality throughout the department. However, he still couldn't stop the aforementioned surveillance video from spreading like a plague on the internet.

"Bruce's vest, shorts, and socks are already sold out." Tim, in CEO mode, walked down the stairs to the Batcave, unbuttoning his suit jacket with one hand and operating his phone with the other.

"What? I thought I was the social media addict here." Stephanie, still in her Batgirl uniform, kicked the office chair ("the Bat-seat") in front of the Batcomputer, which she rarely had the chance to occupy, and greeted him.

"Because besides the security of Gotham, I'm also responsible for the stock price of Wayne Enterprises." Tim sat down on the armrest to the right of her chair, still staring at his rapidly refreshing phone screen. "By the way, the overall stock price did drop, but it's still fluctuating wildly. People seem unsure about how to react to Bruce killing the Joker."

"Well, it's hard to say that I don't understand them." Stephanie took Tim's phone away and threw it onto the console. Tim didn't even protest, just slid down obediently and squeezed into the chair with her.

"Cass is upstairs doing solo meditation. Honestly, I'm a bit worried about her. She said don't worry, but that's practically a family motto, right? We should print it on the back of our batsuits." She awkwardly put her arm around Tim's shoulder and stroked his hair, slowly kicking the chair back to the computer. Half of the screen was looping footage from surveillance near Crime Alley in the early morning. "Dick took Damian out to investigate. A few guys just got promoted to today's most sympathetic people, but other than that, not much progress. Jason's pretty much disappeared. I suggested he keep an eye on the Joker's old territory and watch out for gang wars, but he didn't reply. Alfred went to the police station. Someone who lives with Bruce has to report in first. He said he'd stay in town to handle some legal affairs after answering questions."

"Hmm, Lucius and I discussed this too. We need a trustworthy person who can be informed of Bruce's identity if necessary." Tim leaned against her neck and closed his eyes. "Barbara?"

"She messaged half an hour ago saying the first round of interrogation is over." Stephanie took a deep breath, and Tim immediately squeezed her hand. "What about Bruce? I mean, is he, like, cooperating well? He said he was jogging in the city and happened to see Batman hang the Joker. After Batman left, he picked up the gun. No explanations or excuses, he just said he did it, nothing else. Nobody understands anything."

"Did Gordon buy it?"

"Uh... he told Barbara all this. She said he doesn't usually disclose case details to her like this, and he was one of the first people to see Bruce after... you know. You can't run around in a tight suit for hours and take it off without any marks on your skin." Stephanie sat up straight and said in one breath, "They've been working together since Bruce became Batman, right? He invented the Bat-Signal."

"Bruce mentioned to me that he once wanted to tell Gordon his identity, but Gordon turned away when he took off his mask. After that, they always respected each other's boundaries." Sensing the brewing storm, Tim tensed up a bit. "Gordon is the best cop there is. If he wants to know, I guess nothing can escape his eyes."

"So," Stephanie said stiffly, "do you think we can trust him?"

She could be referring to Gordon or the whole situation, but either way, Tim's answer wouldn't be much different.

"I guess so."

"Screw this!" Stephanie jumped up, and Tim, losing his support, wanted to just collapse, but he managed to brace himself on the chair in time. "He's a fucking asshole! How could he do this? How could he do this to you?"

9.

"How's Damian?" Barbara asked.

"I may have just salvaged what's left of Robin's reputation, but we'll need to buy a new batch of training robots." Dick sat at the top of the steps connecting the Batcave and the manor and replied, "Usually, it's Batman's job to break too many bones, and Robin's job to fly and make witty remarks. Damian always gets it backward."

"Witty remarks are too challenging for him," Barbara agreed, without asking the obvious question like "Are you okay".

"I contacted Constantine to check Bruce's mental state, including whether he's under a spell, and I'm still waiting for a reply," Dick said, sounding calm. " Zatanna and J’oon are more reliable, but they care about Bruce and the Justice League. If Bruce really... anyway, we have to be a hundred percent sure before we let the rest of the League know."

For a moment, words of comfort, worry, and fear flooded through the Barbara's mind, but ultimately, she just suggested, "Go fly for a while, Grayson. I'll handle things on the ground for now."

10.

Possibly due to Gordon's arrangements, Bruce got a solo cell in the crowded Gotham Police Department after the interrogation, and he could barely hear the drunkards, snorers, and mutterers in the hallway. It wasn't particularly quiet, but it was good enough for a nap. Bruce lay down on the small bed with anticipation, but just a few seconds (or maybe two hours) later, he encountered the roughest wake-up call of his life.

"The replacement said he's got a thing for you, so he knows it was you," the Red Hood grabbed the prison uniform's collar and pinned Bruce against the wall, his voice cold and mechanical through the hood, "Cain watched the footage and read that it was you. But I want to hear it from you."

"Don't call Tim that," Bruce suppressed a sigh. He was really sleepy, and the drowsiness felt like it had been building up for a lifetime. "None of you are replacements for each other."

"Don't bullshit me," Jason sneered. "I have plenty of reasons to argue that from the start, you only made me Robin because you needed Dick back, but I'm not interested in that right now."

He yanked the collar in his hand and slammed Bruce's head against the wall again, as if Bruce were some drug dealer who had wandered into his territory.

"I did it," Bruce confessed. He lowered his eyes and noticed that Jason had a handgun tucked into his waistband.

Jason was silent for a few seconds, and when he spoke again, his still mechanical voice was noticeably lower.

"At least tell me this isn't for me."

"I won't say it's none of your business—"

"Because I'm a victim of the Joker, one of the unfortunates who died at his hands. He has a whole bunch of unfortunates like me, and they just keep piling up, no matter how many times you put him away in Arkham." Jason pressed harder on Bruce's throat, ignoring the latter's flinch, "But this, this isn't for me. Don't you dare say it's for me, after all the... after I asked you, forced you, begged you to do this for me..."

Bruce swallowed hard.

"It's not."

"Good." Jason threw him back onto the bed, causing a loud thud, and footsteps immediately echoed down the hallway, "If you dare pin this on me, I swear I'll shoot you—he stole my target, I have the right to ask a few questions."

"I'm afraid you don't, Mr. Red Hood." Detective Bullock held up his gun, with two young officers exchanging glances behind him, "And you're under arrest for unlawfully breaking into the Gotham City Police Department."

He surely didn't believe a word he was saying.

The Red Hood threw a smoke bomb as a courtesy before disappearing.

Chapter Text

11.

Inevitably, the task of answering questions about Red Hood's intrusion fell to Bruce. That Jason particularly loathed the Joker was public knowledge, and since GCPD rarely pursued vigilante-related matters aggressively, Jason had already talked his way out of it. Still, Bruce hadn’t managed to sleep that morning.

After a police station lunch (he’d eaten worse), he endured meetings with defense lawyers. By 3:30 PM, he finally collapsed onto his cot, fully expecting to sleep until dinner.

Then he jolted awake again.

A shadowy figure sat on his thighs.

“Christ, Black Bat.” Bruce groaned.

“You’re tired.” Cassandra rarely spoke during missions, so her suit lacked a voice modulator (and half the armor—she didn’t need it). This made things worse—her voice sounded lost.

“Mhm, yes.” Bruce mumbled, eyeing a suspicious stain on the ceiling. *That can’t be vomit, right? Humans don’t puke upward unless…* He stopped himself.

“Always. Since you… came back.” Her sluggish phrasing betrayed exhaustion, a rarity when she was suited up.

“It’s been a while,” Bruce agreed.

“But yesterday… happier.” Cass continued slowly. “Tired… but good. I don’t understand.”

Bruce knew kids rarely accepted simple truths, but Cassandra was the last person he wanted to explain this to. Mostly because she’d believe whatever he said.

“I was glad to see you return from Hong Kong,” Bruce murmured.

“Yes.”

“Dick and Barbara, Tim and Stephanie—reunited, rediscovering their happiness. Jason’s cooperating again, accepting Alfred’s cookies and therapy. I can’t ask for more right now. Damian messaged this morning from the monastery I trained at, calling it ‘centering.’ Alfred’s out of town for the opera. And you’re back.” Bruce listed them off. “Everyone was safe, happy, or at least calm. No infighting. All part of this… collective. A strange thought hit me—*this could be a perfect day*. I don’t recall ever having one.”

For a few hours, it *had* felt perfect. A compensatory gift after his "death."

“I convinced Tim to stay in the Cave, so he wouldn’t get hurt. Patrolled alone, like Batman’s early days—basic rounds, scaring petty criminals, then home to sleep. I truly believed… increasingly so… it’d end smoothly. Just once, a perfect day.”

Bruce sighed. The memory ached with sweetness.

“Joker… ruined it.”

Those who raised Cass had stripped her of everything but violence, forging her into a weapon. Yet when she learned to speak again, her voice stayed soft—one of Bruce’s few parenting triumphs. Now, though, darkness tinged her tone. He wished he could banish it.

He shook his head. “The point isn’t Joker. Two people died. In Crime Alley, as pointlessly as my parents. No perfect days. Nothing truly changes. No meaning. That’s how things begin… and end.”

“Joker said… the difference between sane and insane… is one bad day,” Bruce muttered. “He was wrong. Maybe… just an ordinary day.”

If Cass reached out, he’d reject her touch—a first. Thankfully, she understood.

12.

He’d thought Jason’s wake-up calls were the roughest. He took it back.

“The only reason I’m not strangling you is because then I’d follow your footsteps, and I’d rather date Black Mask,” Stephanie straddled Bruce’s chest, fists knotted in his collar. “I even considered dusting off the Spoiler suit, y’know? But Batgirl’s legacy is Barbara’s call. Even if Bat-boss is out, what she stands for… it’ll always be worth me.”

She reminded him so much of Jason—the early, angrily reckless Jason—Bruce thought for the millionth time, cheeks stinging. Jason and Stephanie’s Robin-era similarities, unintended but his doing.

“Jason’s hiding. Tim’s refusing sleep. Cass won’t speak. Damian hasn’t left his room since Dick forced a nap. Dick’s either patrolling, juggling endlessly, or crashing into safety nets. Barbara and Alfred are cleaning your mess *and* babysitting everyone.” Stephanie ranted. “If this continues tomorrow, I’ll strip you naked and hang you off Wayne Tower. Got it?”

Bruce braced for another slap. Instead, she spat in his face. Worse—she pressed clenched fists to his chest, stifling sobs and tremors.

13.

"You're the last person I thought would break into a police station."

"I happened to be an agent before I retired, kid." Alfred sat on the edge of his bed, one hand resting on his forehead, as if he were still eight years old, newly orphaned and sick.

"Please do one last thing for me." Bruce didn't open his eyes. "Leave me here and let the process proceed normally. This is the last example I can set for the kids—when you make a mistake, you face the consequences."

A cold touch pressed against his temple, and Bruce heard the sound of a safety being clicked off. He knew Alfred kept a gun somewhere in the mansion, hidden away, and he had never gone looking for it. That was Alfred's way of fighting, and Bruce's aversion to guns wasn't so strong that he would deny his butler the means to defend himself in an emergency.

"I recall you making some remarks about how once killing starts, it doesn't stop, Bruce," Alfred's breath was slightly trembling, but his words were as steadfast as steel. "And you've assigned me a role to play in this situation."

"That contingency plan was mainly for if I were controlled and posed a threat to public safety."

"Well, you didn't make the preconditions very clear."

"Don't..." Bruce's voice cracked. For the first time, he wished he had put the remaining bullet in his own head after shooting the Joker that night. But that would have devastated Tim. "Don't do this to yourself, Alfie."

"Oh, really?" Alfred asked, the implied "How dare you say that to me?" hanging in the air. "Shouldn't I do this?"

"I'll cooperate. I won't do anything illegal again. Just let this end, whether it's Blackgate or Arkham, I'll go, and I'll stay there quietly." Bruce pleaded, "Help me with this, and I'll never—" he almost said "bother you again," but he knew it was the last thing a father wanted to hear. "—have any more accidents. And then, if you're not mad anymore, I hope you'll come visit me often."

Alfred was silent for so long that with each passing second, Bruce became more convinced that the butler would pull the trigger, and he prepared to grab the gun. He was ready to act, and then some liquid dripped on his face—it was his former guardian's tears.

"So, this is how the world ends." Alfred recited, putting away the gun. "Not with a bang..."

Elliot, of course, an English poet.

14.

As it turned out, things were destined to unfold this way: Bane smashed half of the police station, and Ivy and Harley (literally and figuratively) entangled the other half, while the Penguin grumbled as he carried away Bruce Wayne, who had been knocked unconscious by the Scarecrow.

Before the mist of fear engulfed him, Bruce only had time to glimpse Batman nimbly using Bane's shoulder to perform a somersault, causing Harley's sledgehammer to strike the venom tube.

15.

Jason's face gradually came into focus in his vision, wearing only a red domino mask, his expression a mixture of pretended concern and genuine worry.

"It seems his formula hasn't been updated; the antidote from before still works." Jason waved the empty syringe at him. "But you actually fell for it. Was that part of the disguise, or...?"

The unspoken words were so obvious they couldn't be called "unspoken," and Bruce remained silent, causing Jason's expression to fade. The Red Hood tossed the syringe aside and got up to dispose of the ropes and handcuffs that had bound him. Apparently, the next step in the Red Hood's plan was to blow up the entire warehouse, so there was no need to worry about leaving DNA or other evidence behind.

"... fine, apart from a bit of fear toxin... I heard you, Penny One, I'll..."

The Red Hood moved to an area with better signal to communicate, while the kidnappers who hadn't escaped lay scattered everywhere. At Bruce's feet lay Mike Carter, a mid-level Penguin Gang leader who specialized in cross-border human trafficking and had a preference for dark-skinned children under the age of twelve, regardless of gender. Bruce picked up his gun and kicked his head to the side.

When the gun went off, the Red Hood swore every curse word he had learned on the streets of Gotham.

Chapter Text

16.

Dick was wearing his Batman suit with the cowl off, his hair wet, eyes red-rimmed and bruised, and skin pale. Jason could imagine him desperately vomiting and then sticking his head under the faucet to rinse it with cold water. The Batcave was lit only by the screens, making his face look even more haggard.

Neither of them felt like making small talk. They nodded at each other, and Jason walked over to one of the screens. The camera was trained on the chair where Bruce was tied up, obviously the purpose of this kidnapping – everyone was curious about the Joker's death. Before they could interrogate him, the Scarecrow was about to inject Bruce with the antidote when an explosion and loud noise came from off-screen. The camera shook, and the villains shouted and ran in different directions. Fifteen minutes later, the Red Hood, wearing only a domino mask, appeared with a sense of urgency he didn't want to see, rushing towards Bruce Wayne, who was twisting, kicking, and wailing, and pulled out a syringe.

Jason watched as he tapped his communicator and stepped away, and Bruce, now free, rose from the chair, roughly wiping away the tears and snot on his face with his sleeve (a move that would give Alfred a heart attack) to take in his surroundings. Then he walked to the edge of the tilted camera frame, where only one arm of the person lying down could be seen. Bruce picked up a Glock pistol, lifted his left leg to nudge something, and without hesitation, raised his gun hand and pulled the trigger.

Apparently, Dick had watched it so many times that he was no longer fazed by it. Jason pressed the shortcut to turn off all the screens and turned on the overhead lighting.

"You should be thankful it was just me in the warehouse," he said.

"I told Damian there were no cameras, I didn't mention the recording," Dick said hoarsely, with a potential breakdown brewing at the edge of his voice. Jason tried to deny feeling anything like sympathy or concern.

"I don't mind taking the blame if the little assassin needs a innocent father. That guy's only survived this long because of the Bat-code anyway," Jason leaned against the console, in case Dick wanted to turn the recording on again and torture himself. "We already know it was B who took out the Joker, but that's different from this."

What the recording showed was pure, cold-blooded killing. Bruce kicked Carter's head to the side to give his bullet a clear shot at the brainstem. Jason had been told that the Joker was still alive and well before he even had the thought that Bruce should take that nut out, but if he had imagined Bruce killing the Joker, it would never have been like this – rational, efficient, and almost mundane. Batman was known for his silence and pragmatism, but Bruce had designed the opening line "I am vengeance, I am the night" for him, was enthusiastic about using the shadow of a chiropteran mammal to terrify criminals, and encouraged the GCPD to project the bat symbol into the night sky. The man was a hopeless drama queen at heart.

There were no fists filled with vengeful fury in the camera frame, no declarations or threats, and the force of that kick was only within the necessary limit, wasting no energy. Jason wasn't sure if he felt more disgusted or admiring. The Red Hood had killed his fair share of criminals, but even when under the influence of the Lazarus Pit, he had never been this unfeeling.

Dick shook his head. "You were on comms at the time. Everyone could tell the distance of the gunshot, it couldn't have been you. And lately, when you've been working with others, you haven't... we know you're trying, Jason."

"Unfortunate for him," Jason sneered, hiding the fact that he was about to throw up. "How are the little birds doing?"

"Damian still says he doesn't believe it and threw a huge tantrum, accusing Tim of everything. I had to stop him from attacking Tim, who didn't even fight back." Dick took off a glove and threw it on the console, rubbing his face hard with his palm. "I'm more worried about Tim than Damian. After I grounded Damian, he went to deal with Wayne Enterprises' matters. I plan to delete the footage, but I guess he'll see it anyway."

Jason didn't have a high opinion of Dick's version of Batman, probably because Dick had once thrown him into Arkham—mostly his fault, but it wasn't something he could easily forget that Dick had treated him like he was on par with the Joker.

By the way, he seemed to have forgotten to crack that joke to Bruce, "I guess you don't have such a big problem with guns now."

The Joker had lost the opportunity to harm anyone else. Jason went to the morgue to confirm his body and the identity comparison records. The chemically bleached skin had a Y-shaped incision embedded in it, and the genetics, physical characteristics, and medical records matched the original data from Arkham, indicating that the killer of the second Robin had indeed vanished from the world. He certainly wouldn't lay flowers at the Joker's grave, but he didn't seem to have the urge to dismember the Joker's body either, so he pushed the drawer back into the cold storage, erased his traces, and left.

"I'll delete it," Jason shoved Dick aside. "Get out of the way and do some juggling or whatever. Watching it over and over again won't change what happened."

Dick stumbled two steps with his force, tripped over an office chair, and collapsed to the ground like a disassembled puppet. It was pointless even if Jason didn't admit that his chest roared because of this: Dick let out a sound between a groan and a wail, curled up, and grabbed his hair. The batsuit and the single glove made the scene even worse.

"You can't fall apart," Jason gripped the edge of the console. "You have to hold those kids together. Damn it, you have to keep being Batman."

"I can't," Dick said muffledly from between his knees.

"Of course you can. You did a good job last time."

"Last time wasn't..." Dick trembled all over, breathing rapidly. "He didn't... I can't anymore... How could he..."

Eventually, Jason found himself kneeling on the floor of the Batcave, holding his collapsing brother in his arms.

17.

Red Robin held the pen Bruce had hidden, at least he wasn't squatting on Bruce.

"What are you going to do with it?" the boy asked and then shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. GCPD has no shortage of dirty cops, even with Gordon around."

"You should remind Gordon to strengthen the defense of the police station," Bruce sat up and reached out his hand. Naturally, Red Robin wouldn't return the weapon to him. "Don't keep this thing for too long."

Tim put the pen in his bullet belt and said lightly, "I can use it to sign autographs from time to time. You know, even the pens on the CEO's desk often go missing."

"I'm afraid I haven't been to my office much," Bruce said gently, pretending he didn't know Tim was lying.

"Well, then..." Red Robin changed from squatting to sitting, puffed out his chest like a bluffing child, and asked, "What's the plan?"

"There is no plan, Tim."

They stared at each other for so long that Bruce feared he would start tearing up if he didn't blink. Then Tim slowly shook his head.

"I'm not talking about what you've already done," Red Robin said calmly, but the change in the line of his shoulders indicated that he had indeed expected Bruce to tell him that this was a covert infiltration mission, that Bruce hadn't killed anyone, that his imprisonment was for the mission, and that he had instructed Red Robin to cooperate.

"I'm talking about the next plan. You killed Carter, which means your agreement with Pennyworth is void, right? Your confession and meeting records all indicate that you're steering your defense towards mental illness. Is that your goal? You want to be sent to Arkham and then..." Tim lowered his voice as if afraid of disturbing something, "...hunt? Blackgate has more targets, but Arkham is the paradise for criminals who repeatedly escape punishment."

He presented more guesses with a neutral and non-judgmental attitude, demonstrating his value and showing Bruce how much he had changed and to what extent he was unshakable. Tim had become quite good at winning allies, which must be related to his cooperation with the League of Assassins during Bruce's disappearance. Tim won their support, used their power, then restrained their behavior, and destroy them.

After Jason escaped from Arkham, Tim used the same tactics on him: revealed important intelligence, created situations where they had to act together, won the opportunity to get close to Jason, and took advantage of the situation to ask Jason not to kill. Tim had successfully convinced Batman to agree to let another child become Robin before his training, and perhaps from then on, the boy was destined to always achieve his goals.

"I can help you," Red Robin continued. "You can't just start using lethal force like this. You need to retrain, including handling firearms. I know you can use a gun, but there's a difference between that and being accustomed to using one. I know where there's a suitable secretive shooting range."

He deliberately and desperately lured Bruce, striving to keep things within controllable limits.

"Go home, Tim," Bruce said. Tim reacted as if he had been stabbed. Only one of the uniform and name should appear, another rule he had broken.

"I will, but hear me out," Tim struggled to continue, "I understand that you prefer working alone, and you—"

"Tim," Bruce sat on the prison cell bed, looking at his son, "Enough. You've done enough, and you've done well. Go home."

Red Robin tightly closed his mouth, breathed a few times, and reached up to remove his hood.

"No," he bit out the word between his teeth.

"Jason got the order wrong. He thought I had decided not to seek revenge on the Joker and found myself a new Robin. But in reality, it was because you showed up that I finally gave up the idea of killing the Joker for good," Bruce stated, "Because when there's a child who needs me to be responsible for, who looks up to my career as a vigilante... I can't guide him with bloodstained hands. I have to consider what kind of life I'm bringing him into."

"That hasn't changed," Tim's voice began to waver.

"You've already saved me once, Tim, but you can't spend your whole life on this," Bruce slid off the bed, distancing himself from Tim, "You shouldn't be responsible for all my mistakes."

"And then what? Just like that?" Tim also stood on the ground, confronting him, "You expect me to go home obediently and tell Damian, 'Your dad doesn't want you anymore'? Do you think he'll just accept it?"

"It won't be easy—"

"You agreed to let him keep being Robin! From the first day he arrived at the mansion, all he wanted was to take everything away from me. Maybe you didn't encourage him, but you acquiesced when you found out he succeeded!" Tim shouted at him, "Alright, I'm not the youngest kid anymore, I have to be mature! I did it! I thought at least with your real son, you'd behave better, that you wouldn't do this shit to Damian! But what's this? Dick worked so hard to make him a bat! Do you know how much Dick carried for you when you weren't around? Including educating your violent assassin baby! Damian worked so hard to be your son, just like me and Dick, even Jason. Do you know how many times we stood by that line, only not crossing it because we were afraid of disappointing you?"

No police had arrived yet; Tim must have tampered with something outside the cell. All these words rained through Bruce like bullets, "real son." If he claimed he hadn't guessed he'd left this impression on Tim, he'd be lying.

"I reacted terribly to Dick and Jason growing up, did too many stupid things, pushed them further and further away," Bruce said quietly, "After coming back to this era, I found another son had grown up in a place I couldn't see. You found me, stabilized my parents' company, chose your new moniker, and I hoped I could behave more maturely for you—after all, you never really needed me. I wanted to let go and hand things over to you, so you wouldn't leave me."

"I didn't leave you," Tim's choke was a louder accusation than words, "You left us. I fought hard to get you back, don't make me regret it, Bruce."

"I don't want you to blame yourself or regret things you couldn't predict or control, but I no longer have a say," Bruce took a step, turning his back to Tim, "I only started acting as Batman after I became Batman, so I can't give up 'being Batman' unless I've become something else. Batman might be a terrible father, but at least it's possible for him to be one."

Gordon would agree that they had both learned the "disappeared when you looked back" trick very well.

Chapter Text

18.
Jason could never stop trying to bypass the surveillance system of the bell tower, or silently taking what he needed from the Batcave or one of Bruce's ten thousand safe houses, even though he knew he had permission to come and go through the front door (both literally and figuratively). It was like some kind of twisted bat challenge, where every bat hoped to successfully startle Oracle or Big Brother Batman, and he would bet that those two secretly wanted to do the same to each other, as evidenced by Oracle always cutting into communications at unexpected moments and dropping bombshells.

"You missed the motion sensor under the southwest eave on the second floor, Hood." Barbara's gaze was glued to the screen, and Jason could see lines of code scrolling in the reflection of her glasses.

"Damn it," Jason grumbled, closing the window behind him. "Who would put a sensor there? Not even birds fly that way."

"A poor wheel-chaired woman who has to guard against all of Gotham's villains and vigilantes." Barbara clicked her mouse a couple of times, turned off the screen, leaned back in her wheelchair, took off her glasses, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her face looked as haggard as Dick's, making it easier to ask her that question.

"Are you okay?"

"Surviving. Better than Dick at least." Barbara flipped her scarlet hair over one shoulder and replaced her frames. "By the way, non-technical sources of information are over. They yanked my dad off the Joker's murder case today. Apparently having 'personal history' with the victim makes him biased."

"Oh," Jason could only say. "That really sucks."

"Get my message?"

"Why else would I visit without a case?" Jason shrugged. "Seriously? Want me to play Batman tonight? Did everyone forget what happened last time I tried on the cape?"

"You mean when you tried recruiting every warm body as Robin?" Barbara's smirk sharpened. "Tim made sense, but Dick? You actually asked him to wearing back those little shorts and follow you around?"

Jason groaned loudly. "Jesus, shut it!"

"I'm really sad, Jason. I thought you'd be willing to visit your big sister occasionally." Barbara sipped her cold tea, watching Jason's guilt over the rim of her cup.

"Keep playing the 'misery loves company' card, I'm diving out that window," Jason warned.

"Dick's buried in Blüdhaven's reconstruction. Critical phase." Barbara let him off. "And you're the one who most closely resembles Bruce in appearance and fighting style."

Jason laughed. "Really? Now even my fighting style is similar to the old man's?"

"You know that's not what I meant, Jason."

She looked at him, both tired and sad, making Jason lose his desire to be a jerk. He tossed his helmet onto the couch, picked up the teapot from the computer desk, and headed to the living area to find some tea bags.

"You know what really pisses me off?"

"Bruce beat you to the punch?"

"Yeah, that too," Jason frowned, studying the induction cooker, which then turned on by itself– typical Barbara, with her smart appliances and smarter comebacks. "But since I'm temporarily tied up, anyone capping the Joker during my timeout would burn. This isn't some Bat-exclusive trophy."

"Mhm," If it were anyone else, Jason would think they were conceding or expressing doubt, but her hum was just the sound of her mind whirring. When he returned with steaming mugs, her next words struck like Batarangs:

"Because his reasons weren't good enough."

"Bingo," He slid her tea across the desk. Her immediate acceptance warmed him stupidly – damn his recent sentimental streak.

"Not defending that clown, screw him, he earned it decades back. But seriously, if Vicki Vale had run into those two kids on a night stroll, pulled out her little pearl-handled gun and taken them down, no one would blame her, right?" Jason plopped down next to his helmet, brushing off two golden hairs on the armrest that definitely belonged to Stephanie. "That's the kind of blame specifically for vigilantes, like you've been trained and sworn to do good, so when two rookie idiot high schoolers try to rob you at gunpoint, you should gently subdue them, teach them enough of a lesson while avoiding any permanent damage, and preferably find them a job through a Wayne Foundation program, giving them a fifty-fifty chance of not ending up in prison or a grave within three years. As for the Joker? Those kids should've kissed his boots for quick deaths. He didn't even enjoy blowing them sky-high. Bet even that bastard just wanted a quiet stroll through the park he'll never deserve."

"Since Bruce has endured so much yet always restrained himself from killing the Joker, if he ever did it one day, it must have been for a damn good reason," Barbara summarized his impassioned speech.

"Like Joker teaming up with Darkseid, syncing his heartbeat to a nuke's countdown, or offing Demon Spawn—ugh, not that that’d ever happen," Jason grimaced, swatting away the vivid mental image. "At minimum, it’d need to be a universally agreed 'necessary kill' scenario, right? Not some victim surviving only to get murdered by Batman afterward. The JOKER as a victim? Fuck no. That’s just Bruce going full ‘Screw this shit, I’m done being the goddamn Batman.’"

"But how do you feel?" Barbara wheeled closer, her chair humming faintly. "Does knowing the Joker’s gone… help?"

It was the first time anyone had asked. Others might’ve been too busy, but Jason suspected they’d just assumed his answer. Since crawling out of his grave, he’d done little but purge scum and force Bruce into impossible choices. Even if the family saw him as the sole "beneficiary" of Bruce’s broken code (hell, he’d admitted having a family), he couldn’t blame them.

"Still figuring it out. Haven’t slept since," Jason raked fingers through his hair, avoiding Barbara's disapproving gaze. "That Joker’s laugh’s etched into my skull—always will be. But if waking up means knowing he’s not outside my window with a crowbar? Yeah, maybe that’ll help. Worth a shot."

"Well, I slept a few hours, and I do feel a bit lighter," Barbara stared into her teacup. "Dad too. He’d never pull the trigger for revenge, but that doesn’t mean he’s not relieved someone did. I think Bruce being able to stay alone in the quietest cell is kind of a gift, even if he claims it’s ‘media containment.’"

"You’re telling me ‘Cold-Blooded Bruce’ might share a cellblock with eight thugs soon?" Jason’s head throbbed. "Fucking merry Christmas."

"Not that fast. They're planning to send Bruce to Arkham next week for a psych evaluation to decide legal proceedings," Barbara sighed. "Steph and Tim are on Bruce-watch. Cass took the eyebrow razor he stole from Montoya’s purse, so he’s stopped hiding weapons. For now. But we all know that doesn't make him harmless."

"No shit," Jason muttered. Bruce had been trained by the world's deadliest assassins. If he decided to shift his elbow and knee strikes to throats and eyes, Gotham’s morgues would overflow.

"Cass can't stay away from Hong Kong long, and honestly, it's cruel to have her watch over Bruce like this. She understands better than anyone what this city has done to him," Barbara said. "While you're out as Batman, Black Bat’ll assist your patrols."

"And babysit me," Jason groaned, realizing he was losing this battle. "We don't need a second Batman breaking the code, right?"

"BATMAN didn't break anything. Only those who are trusted and believe in themselves can wear that suit. We need you, Jason."

"Damn it, fine!" Jason conceded, utterly defeated. "You all owe me a tropical vacation. With margaritas. You know that?"

Barbara smirked. "Noted."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Jason leaning back, picturing the suit he once had to look up to, imagining the feel of the cape trailing behind him and the black bat emblem staring back at him from his chest.

Suddenly, he blurted, "Ever wish your killed the Joker?"

"My situation's a bit different. My dad's not a vigilante; he's a proper cop," Barbara said matter-of-factly, clearly having thought about this before. "He has the legal authority to shoot criminals mid-rampage . Theoretically, he could have killed the Joker, but whenever he got involved in those cases, I was just glad he came home alive. If he’d fired without justification, he'd lose his job or even go to jail. And unfortunately, my early treatment was expensive. He couldn't afford to get fired. I couldn't help back then, and the Joker sure as hell wasn’t paying reparations."

"Bruce didn't help?" Jason couldn't believe it.

"My dad wasn't exactly on good terms with Bruce Wayne, and he'd never accept money from Batman. Martha Foundation aid? Only as a last resort," Barbara replied. "Bruce funded my Oracle account astronomically. Clock Tower’s the only thing I’ve tapped it for."

"Oh," Jason said. The whole thing was so quintessentially *them*.

"For us, it’s simpler: we’re civilians caught in crossfire. We might want revenge, but revenge's a luxury, life comes first. My shooting was collateral damage from the Joker's attack on Commissioner Gordon. It's public record, so I could join some support groups," Barbara spread her hands. "It wasn't easy, but we got through it. After becoming Oracle, if someone killed the Joker, I might have considered it a favor."

Jason nodded. He’d never assume it was easy, but Barbara navigated it better—much better than he ever could. She was always so strong.

"As for Batman... well, I did think that if he had killed the Joker after what happened to you, my dad and I might have been spared all this," Barbara admitted frankly, gently massaging Jason's forearm when he tensed up. "But at the end of the day, Bruce isn't my father. My dad's a law enforcement officer, and maybe that's why my lines are clearer. Since I wouldn't blame my dad for not doing more to fix Gotham, I certainly wouldn't blame another vigilante.We could’ve all just looked away"

"Nice worldview," Jason hoped he didn't sound too bitter.

"Don’t measure yourself by me. Our battles aren’t the same," Barbara leaned forward, patting his shoulder. "You're doing great, and I don't know if anyone's told you this—welcome back, Jason."

God damn it. He really was getting soft.

Chapter Text

19.

In three hours, there’s a board meeting. Tim needs to pull himself together to face the old fossils who’ve spent years trying to oust Bruce and now seem to be hopped up on stimulants—though he’s not sure if any of this still matters. Back then, Tim had no interest in managing his parents’ legacy. He stepped into Bruce’s shoes during Bruce's absence because it was part of the Batman mission, not just about funding the gear. The Wayne Enterprises’ charity programs form a safety net for Gotham’s underclass. Fragile and full of holes, sure, but it’s still managed to catch a few hardworking, decent single moms and blue-collar workers with decent of luck. Batman can repel some of the darkness but cannot truly bring light. Vocational training and a real paycheck, however, might.

So, with or without Bruce, this matters… Tim repeats to himself. When he was chasing Batman and Robin through Gotham’s alleys with a camera, he never imagined he’d end up running a company (or a corporate empire). But once he took the reins, Tim discovered he was good at it, and the feeling of excelling at something never felt too bad. Childhood trauma, he supposes. He’s always been defenseless against things that earn him recognition.

“Penny-One’s getting restless about your tardiness.”

Tim jerks upright on the gargoyle’s head. Perfect. Damian. Exactly what he needs. The spot where the brat kicked him in the ribs earlier still throbs.

“I’m amazed your amateur-level awareness hasn’t gotten you killed yet.” True to form, Damian hisses the jab. Tim looks up, catching only a glimpse of the kid’s sweatpants and sneaker soles. He immediately decides that if Damian leaps down aiming for his face, he’ll let the brat plummet.

“He sent you to fetch me? That’s not like him.” Tim shifts away from the sneakers’ shadow. “And aren’t you still grounded?”

“No one grounds me unless I allow it,” the brat declares, and Tim doesn’t doubt it.

“I brought the portable Batcomputer. The monitors show Penny-One entered the Cave without alerting anyone five minutes ago - for the second time. This indicates profound agitation,” Damian adds, the screen’s faint glow illuminating his face. “Your aimless dawdling is inefficient and irresponsible, Red Robin.”

“Wow, are you finally growing up today?” It’s not even fully sarcastic. From what Tim knows, Damian isn’t the type to sulk over being grounded while still keeping an eye on the Manor’s security.

Even the Demon Spawn realizes they’re short-handed. The thought ferments, sour and bitter. Stopping Bruce from killing again will take at least two or three family members—and that’s assuming Bruce doesn’t decide to break out. If Bruce stops playing along, even the Justice League might not be enough to stop a Batman with no limits (no, not Batman anymore, Tim refuses to think that). Damian has to grow up, be ready to rush back if the Manor’s attacked, because there’s no Bruce to bail them out anymore—that’s how he learned to work with Dick last time.

“I’ve always been mature!” the boy snaps. “I’ve passed all of Father’s and Mother’s trials. I’m the best Robin!”

“Sure, Damian. Keep it up.” Tim stands, his body screaming with aches and numbness. His mind loops like a scratched disc, replaying the same scene: Bruce turning his back, declaring he’s no longer a father.

Damian is silent for a moment, then: “I know you saw Father. What did he say to you?”

Still that commanding tone, as if Red Robin is his subordinate, obligated to report. Tim really wants to throw “Your dad doesn’t want you anymore” in the spoiled brat’s smug face and see if his little head stays held high.

“I’m heading back now,” Tim says, sending a command to his bike parked on the corner and readying his grapple gun.

Just because he’s not climbing up to meet Damian doesn’t mean the brat won’t chase him down. The kid probably doesn’t get why Dick grounded him and has no concept of a truce. Even as their family teeters on the edge, he’ll still try to take Tim down, racing to be the first to get his skull cracked by the ceiling.

“The Red Robin suit is stupid,” Damian lands further in on the gargoyle (but still too close to the edge). He’s wearing a Nightwing hoodie and jeans—definitely Dick’s doing—with no gear except the microcomputer on his wrist. Not even a grapple gun. The thought of the Demon Spawn climbing up bare-handed made Tim’s hearts skip a bit.

“Thanks, but everything I wear looks stupid to you. I’d rather have something bulletproof.” He tightens his grip on the grapple gun. The bike’s in position, but Tim doesn’t want to swing down with Damian at his back.

The kid’s dark face scrunches up in irritation, his sneakers tapping impatiently on the stone. “Your taste is terrible. Even you looked better in the Robin suit.”

“You’ve made your point very clear.” Tim snaps, and Damian freezes. "I don’t know how many times I have to say this—I’m not competing with you for the suit. I'll never wearing the Robin costume again. It’s yours. Got it? Or do I need to draft a written contract and sign it in blood with shadow magic?”

Saying it out loud doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. Bruce sees Tim as another grown son. He changed his codename while Bruce was away, and Bruce didn’t interfere because he feared Tim would fly off to another city like Dick did—not because Tim was insignificant. Tim really wants to believe Bruce’s words, including the part where Bruce’s terrible life choices have nothing to do with him. Yet his stomach sinks with guilt.

Without his combat boots, Damian looks smaller than usual, swaddled in loose clothes instead of layers of armor. He looks like nothing more than a sulky child—a hurt child. His brows are furrowed as usual, his lips slightly pouted, his arms defensively crossed. The baby fat still clinging to his face gives him an uncanny resemblance to the young Bruce in the old family portrait of the Waynes. Tim sincerely prays he hasn’t inherited Bruce’s insane overprotectiveness. He raises his hands in a gesture of truce.

“If you behave, I’ll consider giving you a ride，and not telling Alfred - Wait, how did you get here?” He suddenly recalled the crucial point he overlooked. “You didn’t steal the Batmobile, or Alfred and Oracle would’ve noticed.”

“TT. Don’t underestimate me. Bypassing them was trivial,” the brat boasts. “And I have my ways.”

He whistles, and Tim stares in disbelief as the outline of a dragon emerges from the direction of Gotham Park, growing larger.

“You brought Goliath into the city?” How did he ever think this kid was maturing? “Are you trying to cause a panic?”

“TT. Gothamites don’t panic over a mere dragon.”

Unfortunately, that’s also true. Damian has indeed come to understand Gotham better.

“The city’s air quality is poor, and the soil is saturated with harmful chemicals, which also contaminates the plants growing in it,” Damian explains, stroking the dragon as it lands beside him with a gust of wind. By Damian’s standards, it’s downright gentle. Tim resists the urge to mock him for acting like Poison Ivy’s apprentice. “Visiting the city isn’t beneficial to their health, but I still believe Goliath and Bat-Cow deserve to see the full scope of the city we protect. I doubt anyone else would—”

“Bat-Cow?” Tim’s voice edges toward hysteria. This is definitely not his fault. “Let me get this straight—you rode a dragon out, and it’s also carrying a COW?”

“Goliath and Bat-Cow respond well to commands. They fight for justice,” Damian declares, puffing out his chest in defense of his pets. Tim starts wishing the current Robin had come to attack him instead.

“Your dad’s been gone for TWO MINUTES!” he shouts. Damian, for the first time, takes a step back, eyes wide. Goliath snorts at him in displeasure. “And you think you’re free? Eager to parade your—”

Wait. A needle-like shiver runs down his spine—a premonition of terrible mistakes. Tim falls silent, scrutinizing Damian, replaying their interactions tonight. Damian brought no weapons so this was a peaceful attempt… “The Red Robin suit is idiotic.” Damian looked dissatisfied with his response, as if Tim had missed the point… “Even your Robin suit was less offensive”… “I doubt anyone else would do this.”

“Are you leaving?” Tim asks softly, a chill settling deep in his bones—though that might also be from the gusts of wind Goliath is generating to stay aloft. “Why? Because of Bruce? But you stayed in Gotham when you thought he's dead, didn’t you?”

Damian’s face twists into that familiar look of impatient superiority, but Tim realizes he’s nervous. His jaw is clenched tight, his sneakers scuffing against the gargoyle’s spine.

“Grayson said corresponding to Batman’s teachings, it’s the Robin’s duty to help Batman maintain his mental state,” he says with visible difficulty, as if the words are a humiliation. “He said that after Todd’s failure, Father became exceptionally violent and reckless. It was you who restored him to normal. Otherwise, Father might have become… like now, or died.”

“What—you think Bruce is like this because he changed Robins?” Tim feels like he’s hit his head on the GCPD rooftop or inhaled some kind of toxin. “You think… wait, no way…”

“There’s no other explanation,” Damian insists stubbornly, his neck stiff. “No members of Father’s pitiful, non-blood-related family have been killed. Recently, this city hasn’t—”

“You weren’t even there!” Tim glares at him. “I was the one monitoring his patrol that night! And I was supposed to go out with him, but I followed his—”

“ROBIN is the one supposed to go out with Batman!” Damian retorts sharply. “Brown eliminated too quickly, but you, Todd, Grayson—all of you joined other superhero teams and undertook long-term missions during your time as Robin. Father never broke his principles during your absences. A partnership doesn’t require constant proximity to provide unwavering support, because you know the other exists, and you trust that they’ll come for you no matter what in difficult times…” The boy turns away, patting the confused dragon. “You once succeeded in stopping Father from becoming someone he didn’t want to be.”

A lump the size of Gotham forms in Tim’s throat. Damian looks defeated, his hurt laid bare. Tim finally understands that Damian’s attacks on the former Robins—after Bruce shot the Joker, or even earlier—were ultimately directed at himself. Before Damian was dropped on Bruce’s doorstep, Bruce had never wanted this son. Yet Damian was raised from birth to idolize his father and become Batman. He fought for Tim’s position, using the methods taught by the League of Shadows, and Bruce refused to validate him. Then Bruce “died,” and Dick took over, teaching him to be Robin. When Bruce returned, he simply accepted, but his rapport with Damian remained strained. Damian likely believes he’s inadequate in his father’s eyes.

Damn it, he really messed up. Tim’s a terrible brother. Where’s the hug-happy Dick Grayson when they need him?

“Hey!”

Tim nearly slips off the gargoyle’s beak—not even in the top three of his brothers’ murder attempts, though he wouldn’t protest if Jason shoot him out of this mess.

“Todd!” Damian spits the name. “You’re unworthy to wear my father’s suit!”

“Sorry, kid, but this fucking thing’s a pain to put on, and I’m not taking it off until I’ve broken a few scumbags’ bones.” Jason stands on the nearest rooftop, the long black cape billowing behind him. Beneath the Batman cowl, his trademark grin is visible, its edges tinged with a madness that makes him eerily distinct from Dick in the Batsuit.

“And by family tradition, I think I need to get myself a Robin.”

The sight of Damian leaping onto Goliath’s back and charging at Jason is nothing short of spectacular.

Chapter Text

20.

Damian was a formidable little warrior—strong, agile, with beast-like combat instincts. Yet Jason was also at his physical prime, standing three feet taller and weighing three times as much. But this confrontation involved a dragon, and while taunting the furious baby bird was entertaining, Jason had no desire to provoke the massive fairytale (or infernal) creature.

"Stop this!" Red Robin, lacking a dragon-ride, had taken the long way up to the rooftop. "What do you think this looks like? Batman and Robin infighting? Or Batman beating up a irrelevant civilian?"

"You’re the irrelevant one!" Damian hissed, backstepping warily as he eyed them both. Red Robin was definitely rolling his eyes beneath his mask.

"I didn’t even say child. Stop nitpicking."

"I’m not a child! You amateur!"

"While I’m not opposed to enjoying your family sitcom, don't we have an issue here?" Jason cut in, itching to fire a warning shot (definitely, his version of a Bat-glare would do nothing against these two brats), so bad that the Bat doesn't carry a gun."Where does our little Robin plan to fly off to, leaving Batman behind?"

Red Robin relaxed his stance, studying Damian with concern. Jason’s relationship with the family had been quite tense(or rather explosive) during Bruce’s fake-death era, but even he could see why Dick had kept the kid as Robin—mostly to stop Damian from running back to his mother.

"None of your business, Todd!" Damian snarled, hands jammed into his hoodie pockets as the dragon landed beside him, puffing smoke in solidarity. "All you need to know is that you should strip off my father’s suit immediately!"

As if I’m begging to wear this, Jason sneered. "I just said I’m keeping it for now. Got a problem with English comprehension?"

"My linguistic capabilities are flawless!" Damian crouched, coiled to strike—so damn twitchy. "I’m proficient in eight languages, including English!"

"Hey, does Dick know about this?" Replacement interjected. "Don't tell me you discussed this. He’d never agree to you leaving Gotham at such a time, and I doubt you’d ghost him."

"He will know—because I’m going to Blüdhaven." Damian’s defiance faltered, gaze darting upward petulantly. Replacement seemed to soften at that, just as inappropriately as Jason did. "It’s efficient. With Father… temporarily absent, Grayson must focus on Gotham again instead of entrusting it to this—" He jerked a venomous nod at Jason. "—lunatic. I’ll patrol Blüdhaven in his stead. The cities are close enough for mutual support."

"Uh… You do have a plan." Red Robin was clearly unsure how to feel about this. He instinctively glanced at Jason, then quickly averted his gaze from Jason the Batsuit. At least they should agree that the boy's plan was much better than they expected.

"Lack of planning is for amateurs!" Damian snapped. Replacement’s lip twitched.

"I mean, you really plan to go to Dick and leave the Robin suit to me again."

"Don’t mistake this for permanence, Drake!" The kid’s shoulders tightened. "I’ll train under Grayson to reclaim my role! You’re merely temporarily authorized to monitor Father’s mental state!"

"Is that how we’re framing Batman and Robin now?" Jason snorted. "Sounds like Bruce is some creep. Wait, let me think, he wears skin-tight suits—"

"How dare you slander my father!"

"You’re not helping, Jason!"

"Attack together, imposters! Don’t think you can—"

"Sweet mercy! Damian! Is this how Dick taught you to—"

Mentioning Dick worked like a switch. Within minutes, Damian deflated into a sulky child huddled against his dragon’s head, as if the beast were his only comfort. Jason suddenly remembered that he had shot him before, showing restraint only in not blowing his head off. Helpful.

"Black Bat’s watching your… BAT-COW at the park." Jason tried to say the word casually. Replacement stifled a laugh.

"I’m aware. Cain began lurking around it ten minutes ago." Damian sniffed, unbothered by the name. "Did you think I’d leave my charge unattended? I ensured it won’t ingest toxic flora."

"Look, Damian." Red Robin pushed back his hood, revealing Tim Drake’s face and messy hair. "First—I’m not becoming Robin again."

"Why?" The kid squinted. "You clearly want the suit back every time you see me wearing it."

"I… Not exactly. It’s less about wanting it," Tim lied poorly, "and more about being pissed someone took it without my consent."

Damian eyed him skeptically. "To my knowledge, none of the first four Robins relinquished the role voluntarily."

"Uh…"

Jason barked a laugh. Too fucking rich.

"He’s right, Replacement. None of us gave up Robin—Bats should reflect on that." He clapped mockingly, armored gloves clinking. "But consent or not, it’s a one-way street. Robin’s a… probation phase. Batman’s sidekick. Nobody grows up and squeezes back into pixie boots."

Mistake. Tim’s eyebrows shot up.

"Really?" Replacement smirked. "I’ve got Titan Tower security footage. Your giant Robin suit—especially those yellow leggings—was spectacular."

"I can still slit your throat," Jason warned, though the memory seemed to pained him more than Tim.

"Grayson’s ‘probation’ lasted a decade. He became Nightwing older than Red Robin." Damian impatiently dragged the topic back. "As Father’s most endorsed Robin, all successors should match his tenure before adopting another name. Todd and Blonde both got kicked out before their time was up, and Drake—"

"No, no, no…" Tim shook his head frantically. "I may not ready to be replaced, but I’m definitely not wearing that outfit till 23. It’s not adult-friendly. Also—I’m legal now."

Damian bristled. "Grayson—"

"Was a shameless acrobat." Tim said firmly, even glancing at Jason for backup. "He basically went commando till 19. And… have you seen the disco Nightwing suit?"

The kid puffed his cheeks and fell silent.

"His overly revealing elf costume forced me dye my hair and shave my legs often," Jason lamented grimly. Replacement shuddered, and Damian made a disgusted face. "Though anyone could tell Robin had suddenly regressed to pre-puberty, the black hair made me look more like the obedient little Dick who hadn’t run away yet."

"Bruce didn’t mean it like—"

"Yes, he did. Alfred did too. When I first arrived at the manor, he hinted that he hoped I could fill the role Dick once did." Jason wanted to say it didn’t hurt anymore—after everything, *even Alfred wishing he could be Dick* was trivial. "I guess Dick really did help Bruce a lot. Everyone who knew Bruce wanted me to fill the void Dick left. Dick was perfect, but to me, he was a condescending asshole—something you two birdies can’t imagine, huh?"

"Dick mentioned to me that he felt he wasn’t good enough to you," Tim said cautiously. "He was at odds with Bruce at the time, and Bruce gave Robin to you… It was the name his mother gave him."

Oh, fuck. Judging by Damian’s lack of surprise, maybe Jason was the only Robin successor who didn’t know this (or Damian was just a self-absorbed assassin). Dick had handed the Robin mantle to him after all. They’d had some good times, but never close, not even by the time Jason died.

"He also nagged me about it," Damian rolled his eyes. "TT. He seemed to think he was responsible for your failure. It makes no sense."

"Fuck him," Jason spat. That’s what he represented: a lesson, a mistake, a failed experiment. He died, and Dick decided to embrace this fate—welcoming every little bird Bruce brought in to replace him with open arms. "People always learn from me, huh? Did the old man teach you not to disobey orders and go looking for your mommy, or else you’d die?"

"Bruce and Alfred didn’t mean it like that," Replacement (To be honest he really had no right to call Tim that) raised his voice, his blue eyes fixed firmly on Jason. "At least, they were never disappointed that you weren’t Dick, or cared about you less because of it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have needed me. I’m nothing like Dick. If I hadn’t observed Bruce for a long time and been certain of how much losing you hurt him, I wouldn’t have offered myself."

But the Joker lived. Jason almost retorted. I died, the Joker lived, and Bruce got himself a new son, a new partner. It was almost Jason's worst fear after being adopted: that if he wasn’t good enough, Bruce would end the game and throw the little orphan back onto the streets.

He’d had the chance to kill the Joker and wasted it trying to force Bruce to do it. Now the Joker was killed for no reason. Jason suspected Bruce had done it on purpose.

"My mother said that one day, we would fight to the death, and only one of us would survive," Damian spoke flatly, instantly capturing everyone’s attention. "If I won, I would inherit the League of Assassins. I would become the heir to both Batman and the League. I was born for this."

"What the… fuck," Tim stared, stunned. "She’s your MOM!"

"That’s how the League operates!" Damian shot him a glare. "Not your soft, childish games!"

"Thanks, I’ve worked with Ra’s. My spleen’s in his collection, and I’ve got a dozen assassins in my contacts. I know how assassins operate," Tim dryly listed his impressive resume. "But she’s your mother, and she raised you telling you she’d kill you?"

"My mother is the deadliest woman in the world," Damian said arrogantly. "I will surpass her. She never doubted that I would grow stronger than both her and my father."

Tim’s arms hung limply at his sides as he helplessly looked at Jason. Jason really wanted to take off the damn helmet pressing on his nose to remind the birdies that he wasn’t Dick and had no idea how to handle an assassin brat. His memories of his time training with the League were hazy. He vaguely remembered an arena, where he’d taken his first lives, remembered broken necks and fluid-filled tracheas, but he couldn’t recall the faces. Talia had helped him, in her twisted, cruel, and vengeful way, channeling his madness and directing it, but if that was where Damian grew up, he felt sick knowing he’d accepted her help.

"That’s not how we do things," Tim stepped closer to Damian, crouching slightly in front of the boy, which seemed to offend Damian even more. "Bruce and Dick must have told you—we don’t kill to earn our place in the family."

"Father has changed his mind," the boy gripped the dragon’s scaly hide tightly, not refuting the "family" part. "There’s footage. Grayson says there isn’t, but I know he’s lying. I accessed the Batcave systems while he was busy vomiting."

Clearly, as Dick had anticipated, Replacement had seen it too, and his reaction was similar to Dick’s. It made Tim look like he was about to shatter in front of Damian, while Damian’s lips pressed together, so lost and afraid. Jason wanted to fly to Blüdhaven and tear Dick apart for his lack of vigilance, or kick through GCPD’s windows and shoot Bruce.

"Grayson clearly finds it unacceptable. Father’s change poses a serious threat to his mental state and could lead to… severe consequences," Damian’s breathing grew short and rapid. "And I’m also… not ready. Father has crossed his principles, moving toward what Mother calls his ultimate form. His methods are lethally efficient. I don’t think I can defeat him in this state anytime soon… or survive."

"You… you can’t be serious," Tim was horrified. "Bruce wouldn’t… he wouldn’t kill his son!"

Jason really wished he’d never come back to life.

Chapter Text

21.

Persuading Damian was an exceptionally challenging task, especially for Tim. The little demon hadn’t grown to like or respect him any more than before, but there were indeed three individuals in this patchwork, peculiar family who had earned Damian’s reverence. Currently, their mental states hung by a thread—if not already shattered—and Tim believed that this child, whom Tim couldn’t bring himself to like even at his best, had already stretched his capacity for "considering others" to its limits.

"You’re evading your responsibilities!" Damian swiftly shifted from an abandoned kitten to a frenzied young leopard, and Tim couldn’t claim surprise at this escalation. "I offered you a chance at redemption, Drake! Father shattered his cherished principles while under your assistance, plunging Batman’s mission into crisis! You should be striving to undo the damage you’ve caused!"

"Oh, so now it's MY fault again?" Tim blurted out, "What happened to that touching speech about Robin's responsibilities to Batman?"

"Everything was fine when I communicated with Father this morning! He acknowledged the progress of my exploration into the path of becoming Batman!" Damian spat, pushing the uneasy Goliath backward, "But mere hours later, you ruined everything!"

"Whoa, listen up, birdies," Jason interjected with incendiary glee. "I’m all for popcorn—wait, Penny One?" He raised a finger in mock comms posture, his tone shifting to unnerving seriousness, bordering on deference. "Yes, both of them… I wouldn’t phrase it that way, but no casualties for now… Understood."

The realization that Bruce often underwent the same transformation when Alfred spoke gravely struck Tim like a gut punch. Apart from Jason, the few who had taken turns visiting Bruce had shared only minimal intel, each hoping the others would offer a different perspective. Yet the accounts from those who’d seen Bruce afterward aligned disturbingly. Tim happened to catch a glimpse of the gun holster beneath Alfred's shirt upon his return, which freezed him in the hallway as if hit by Mr. Freeze. Whether the butler was aware of Tim's momentary horrifying speculation or not, he said nothing.

"Hey, baby bird," Jason lowered his finger. "Penny One says temps’ll keep dropping tonight, and Gotham’s due for citywide downpours within the hour. Outdoor loitering’s bad for Batcow and Goliath’s health."

"I know! What do you take me for, an idiot? We should be on our way back by now." Damian stabbed at the mini Batcomputer with enough force to crack its bulletproof screen, Tim suspected. But it wasn’t the boy’s resentment that ignited Tim’s violent urges—it was the raw disappointment. "Someone’s squandered my time."

*Because I should grovel with gratitude when you steal what’s mine, fail to handle it, and toss it back?* Tim wordlessly pulled up his hood, pivoted, and leapt off the rooftop, grapple gun firing. He’d just declared the Robin suit wasn’t his property; some ill-bred brat wasn’t worth eating his words.

He jumped onto his motorcycle, and as soon as he turned on the comm, Oracle directly patch through Alfred’s call, her silent fury deafening.

"I know tensions are high, Red Robin. This isn’t about blame." She spoke before Alfred could, her reasonable tone screaming accusation. "But during crises, keep your comms active in uniform. Understood?"

"Copy," Tim answered stiffly.

Barbara sighed: "Gang wars are erupting. Weapons shipments flooding Gotham’s borders. Batwoman believes multiple factions want Joker’s corpse for varying agendas. Look on the bright side, you're not the first to snap at me today. She thought B was running some black ops until she confirmed the Joker’s actually dead. Probably someone should've informed her, but I didn't know how to phrase that."

"My bad," Tim murmured, sincerity bleeding through. Since taking over Wayne Enterprises, if anyone bore a heavier load than him, it was Barbara. Besides monitoring their patrols most nights, Oracle often had to serve as Gotham's neutral information nexus, contacting vigilantes like Batwoman and Huntress who weren't entirely part of the Bat-family, adhering to Batman's code mostly because it was more efficient than opposing him.

Right now, she undoubtedly needed to spend more energy watching thoose loose cannons. With Bruce abandoning his no-killing rule, it was predictable how their modus operandi might change. And Barbara still clocked full-time hours elsewhere. Tim couldn’t fathom when she slept.

“Drinking coffee at this hour is unacceptable, Red Robin, but I would be delighted if you indulged in some soothing herbal tea upon your return,” Alfred’s polished British accent interjected, inexplicably calming the storm in Tim’s stomach.

“Fine, sounds good,” Tim replied clumsily before remembering to protest. “But I barely have time to sleep, Penny One! I NEED coffee!”

“Which is why I suggest you return at a safe speed immediately,” Alfred replied coolly. “I shall ensure you receive at least two hours of rest before departing again. Perhaps then you may have a cup.”

Tim groaned. “You know one cup won’t cut it! It’s the board meeting! Without enough caffeine, I might…”

*Kill half the attendees.* The joke died on his lips as it suddenly lost its humor. Tim revved his bike, swerving around wind-whipped plastic bags, his heart pounding against his ribs. He felt like an idiot.

“That is undoubtedly an occasion requiring decorum, so I shall refrain from saying ‘well done’ to your implied scenario,” Alfred defused the awkwardness with his usual poise.

“I don’t envy you, rich boy,” Barbara yawned. “I’ve got a new intern at the library, so I’m sleeping in tomorrow morning.”

“New intern?” Tim leaned into a sharp turn.

“No mask. Someone from my day job. Can’t get a library card through normal channels… for reasons,” Barbara breezed past what Tim suspected was a *criminal record*. “She’s finishing her degree remotely, starting fresh. I vouched for her.”

Your trust is ours,” Tim chuckled.He didn’t regret dropping out, nor did he plan to return, but hearing someone strive for something as mundane as a degree felt oddly grounding.

“How do you think, Batman?” Barbara alerted them to the new voice on comms. Tim was still adjusting to Jason’s derisive snort following the title *Batman*.

“My situation’s messier—involves Arkham files and death certificates,” Jason drawled. “By the way, you all missed the brat loading Batcow onto a dragon. Pretty sure that cow’s his girlfriend.”

“You’ve got a gift for making anything sound vile,” Tim griped.

“Raised in Crime Alley. What’d you expect?”

“Robin exhibits remarkable compassion for animals,” Alfred intoned pointedly. “I find it most beneficial for his development.”

“Sure, at least he doesn’t kill anyone in front of animals. Even if they’re adults,” Tim muttered.

“I’m also pleased to hear no one was injured during your conversation with Robin tonight.”

The suburbs now stretched ahead, roads cleaner, the engine’s hum and the night wind slicing across his exposed lower face. Speed made it easy to blurt out reckless thoughts. Maybe that’s why Robins could never keep their mouths shut.

“I was just thinking about the first time I met Robin.”

“A memorable day,” his inflection implying it was anything but pleasant. Jason hummed with interest.

“Yeah, he rejected my hand of friendship, and I wasn’t exactly gracious either. When B told me his backstory, When B told me his backstory, I lost it. Accused his mom of fabricating it, demanded B make him earn his place. Then I handed B the Ghost Dragon case intel and left him to handle it alone.” Tim smiled faintly, recalling how, despite everything that had happened during his Robin tenure and Bruce being far from a traditional good father, he’d managed to molded Tim from an overlooked quiet kid into a snarky teen. “Of course, Robin wasn’t there, but I suspect he overheard, given what he did next: decapitating the Ghost Dragon, stuffing its head in a bag, and bringing it home, then stealing his ‘rightful place’ from me.”

Jason whistled. “How’d B take that?”

“He heard from witnesses that a kid had decapitated the Ghost Dragon and rushed back to find me bleeding out in the Batcave. I wasn’t entirely lucid, but I’m pretty sure he was freaking out.”

“Not enough to boot the little assassin, though. Blood son perks,” Jason snorted. “Your brother luck’s cursed,
little red.”

“He locked me in the panic room and nearly caused you to bleed out, Red Robin” Alfred said disapprovingly. “I will never defend him on that matter, nor should you blame yourself. His upbringing is not his fault, but it is certainly not yours either.”

“Feelin’ targeted here.”

“No such intent, Master J.”

“Ugh, what’s that?” Jason protested. “Can’t we drop the stupid rules for one second?”

“I was convinced he was beyond saving. After B disappeared, I thought Nightwing should’ve trusted me and helped me find B. If Damian wanted to crawl back to the League, fine,” Tim said loudly, the night wind filling his mouth like shame.

“Entirely understandable, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, discarding the “no real names” protocol. “You risked everything to save Master Bruce. We failed you by leaving you alone.”

“I’m just… frustrated. I should’ve won, but Dick proved me wrong. Damian can be a decent little brother, with the right brother,” Tim said. “I’m sure Bruce would prioritize steering Damian right over his own safety.”

Yet Damian was worried about his eldest brother, terrified his father might see him as a criminal to be eliminated, and desperate to trade the only position he’d earned outside the League for his family’s restoration. Tim’s contact with the League during his time away from Gotham had given him a deeper understanding of Damian. He remembered the moment he’d thought his life was over, when Ra’s’ demonic sister had tried to drain him, and how his mind had been filled with the pathetic thought, *Is this how Damian and I end?* But when he returned to Gotham, Damian continued to scorn him, creating endless trouble for his work as both a vigilante and at Wayne Enterprises - nothing changed.

“I genuinely recommend punching someone or yelling at someone. Do yourself a favor. I strongly recommend the guy at the GCPD,” Jason said with a strange tone. “Golden Boy Dick doesn’t count. You deserve a medal for not shooting the brat.”

“No offense, but I really don’t want to compete with you on that front, Jason,” Tim pointed out, then braced himself for a moment—Jason’s laughter signaled he wasn’t offended.

“He still calls Stephanie ‘Eggplant’ and ‘Fat Girl’ sometimes. Punishing him doesn’t work; the kid’s just incorrigible,” Barbara said matter-of-factly. “Yes, he’s exactly like his mother.”

The comms erupted in laughter, and Tim thought he heard Cass chime in with a “Rude.” Gunfire and shouts crackled intermittently from her end, and Barbara asked if she needed backup, mentioning Jason was en route, though Cass seemed to be handling it fine on her own.

When Tim parked his bike in the Batcave, he waited a moment longer. Cass reported the chaos was under control and the police had arrived to clean up, so he locked the bike. As he began removing his gear, Jason’s voice came through again.

“Hey,” Jason said quietly. “Know I’ve been… not great for a while—”

“Don’t, Jason,” Tim muttered, already regretting poking the wound. He wouldn’t say Jason was a great brother or that he’d never felt betrayed by his former Robin, but at least recently, Tim felt they were almost okay.

“—just wanted to say… this isn’t what I wanted,” Jason pressed. “Swear, I never meant for him to… end up like this. NEVER.”

There was a desperate edge to his voice, like a boy who knew he’d done wrong but couldn’t help seeking understanding. Tim instinctively replied “Of course,” just as Barbara said, “It’s not your fault.”

“We all know that, Master Jason,” Alfred said, his tone both sad and firm.

Chapter Text

22.

Stephanie despised surveillance missions, especially when assigned to them during collaborative cases. Hours of maintaining the same posture, idly calculating how much trouble she could’ve resolved in that time, coupled with zero privacy—even bathroom breaks required reporting and waiting for a replacement—formed her own personal hell.

“Target’s still asleep,” she muttered into the comms, staring at the microcomputer screen. Just to be safe, she’d even dropped to peek through the cell window earlier, confirming the scene matched what all four cameras showed. It might not eliminate the possibility of Bruce tampering, but they’d all agreed that round-the-clock surveillance at Bruce’s bedside or outside the police station wasn’t practical, especially during daylight.

During regular surveillance missions, having people on comms was worse than radio silence. The mentally unstable, psychopathic bunch took turns either pissing her off or cracking her up, trying to bait her into exposing herself. Even the slightest movement to stretch her stiff limbs would prompt someone to ask if she was getting restless, even though she was certain she hadn’t made any noise resembling the scrape of a shoe sole against concrete.

“Or he’s just pretending to sleep. But I think he’s actually asleep. His real sleep looks different from just lying there with closed eyes. I’ve seen both over the past few days,” Stephanie added.

Not that she behaved any better when others were on watch. It was some cultural relic from the Dark Knight’s early days as half of the Dynamic Duo: *Annoy your family to death so you don’t have to kill them*. Stephanie barely qualified as half a family member, but since she’d chosen to keep the bat on her chest, she’d follow the rules—because otherwise, she’d get herself killed, blah blah. See? She’d learned from dying. She was a good girl.

“I think his weapon-grabbing attempts every few hours are just probing our surveillance intensity.”

Maybe she should drop down and slap Bruce again. His reaction would reveal if he was truly asleep. Even for their kind, instinctive movements upon waking were hard to mask. She’d learned never to disturb a sleeping Damian (Who sleeps with both animals and knives, seriously?), and Stephanie was certain she’d nearly been thrown off the bed during her last encounter with Bruce. They were all walking bundles of trauma and violence.

“By the way, the three guys Batman hung from streetlights tonight are Joker’s crew. You’ve probably already noticed. I suggested Officer Montoya stash them as far from the morgue as possible, but keep monitoring them. Out.”

Only faint radio static answered. It didn’t matter. Stephanie had grown accustomed to the team’s uncharacteristic professionalism on this mission. She had no doubt that if she raised an alarm, every available ally would converge here within minutes. Compared to what they’d face then, surveillance felt as easy as breathing.

Still, she kind of wanted to punch Bruce again—what’s the harm, right? Unless he was undergoing some cocoon-like metamorphosis, suddenly deciding his former vigilante allies belonged on his hit list. If that happened, they’d all be doomed. She’d rather die after leaving him with a black eye or nail marks.

What sucked even more was that her and Cass’s manicures from that night were still only half-done. Stephanie had tried persuading Cass to finish, but her intentions were as obvious to Cass as a Gotham Tower broadcast. Cass had simply said “Refuse” and clammed up, leaving Stephanie to guess what Bruce had refused: to stop killing? To explain what was wrong with him? Or just to give a damn hug?

“Copy. Good work,” Tim’s voice (not Red Robin’s) startled her. “Shift change as planned?”

“Shouldn’t you be resting, Red Robin?” Stephanie snapped. She’d volunteered for the night shifts to accommodate Tim’s workload (he and Barbara took turns daytime covering for each other), but Red Robin had undoubtedly inherited some of Batman’s worst traits. “I mean sleeping. And if you dare drink coffee now, I’ll replace all your beans with peppercorns this month.”

“Penny One already warned me, relax,” Tim chuckled, though it carried more exhaustion, making him sound like a wilted vine in Poison Ivy’s greenhouse after her arrest (yes, to save energy on preventing her escapes, the vigilantes even watered her plants). Maybe he wasn’t overcaffeinated, but he definitely should’ve been sleeping, and Stephanie reiterated this.

“I’m awake. I’ll try to sleep some more,” Tim said with zero sincerity. “Anyway, is Robin nearby?”

“What?” Stephanie instinctively scanned her surroundings, her fingers brushing a batarang. Gotham’s rooftops always offered too many shadows for hiding, and Damian’s compact frame gave him 30% more options. But the kid’s patience rivaled a toddler’s, making him equally unsuited for ambushes. “Uh, have you contacted Nightwing?”

“I found Robin’s room empty minutes ago, but his patrol with Batman and Black Bat should’ve ended. I went down to the Cave to check. He didn't seem to has ditched his tracker. If you can confirm his location, there’s no need to alert Nightwing.”

Because Dick wasn’t just a mother hen to Bruce’s violent offspring—he was also the most devout enforcer of Bruce’s principles. In the wake of Bruce’s… *change*, Dick’s four days of silence and evasion were worse than if he’d stormed the GCPD to confront Bruce. They didn’t need to give Dick more reasons to spiral. He’d managed Damian for two years; they could handle the little assassin for a week.

“Alright, let me check…” Stephanie switched screens on her microcomputer. “Oh! He’s right—”

“Your vigilance matches your comm encryption, *Fat Girl*,” Robin’s voice sliced through the channel, dripping with his usual arrogance and disdain. The red-green-yellow figure emerged from behind a water tower on the western rooftop, closing in. “And your superfluous movements are equally egregious.”

“What did Nightwing say about insulting family members?” Tim interjected, though his relief was palpable.

“Invoking his name to meddle only highlights your inadequacy, imposter,” Damian shot back, his voice echoing both through the comms and from five meters in front of Stephanie. He crouched, his lips curled in their perpetual scowl.

“Alright, boys,” Stephanie stifled a smirk, adopting her sweetest tone. “You know we all love you to bits, Little D.”

The tactic was cheesy but effective—Damian made a face like he’d bitten into something sour, clearly avoiding her gaze beneath his mask. Beyond a disdainful snort, he offered no proper retort. Sometimes it wasn’t just about shutting Damian up without casualties. Most of them couldn’t stand being in the same room as the brat for more than ten minutes, especially Tim, who absorbed the worst of his barbs. But even Tim occasionally had moments of clarity, realizing Damian was just a kid—and, annoyingly, kind of adorable. Stephanie mocked him for Stockholm Syndrome; Tim insisted it was “PASD” (Post-Assassin Stress Disorder).

“I’ll reserve judgment,” Tim said, adopting that faux-scandalized tone he used when her audacity shocked him. Bless Gotham’s heirs. “Anyway, are you planning to approach B, Robin?”

“Tt.” Damian looked down as if he could see through the floor with his mind. “I’m merely compensating for Batgirl’s incompetence. She’s incapable of preventing Father from doing anything.”

More than the body-shaming, his dismissal of her skills pissed Stephanie off (and no, it wasn’t because he was Bruce’s son, thank you). As if she were still the rule-breaking, plan-wrecking liability—*sorry*, that title had been reassigned. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but Tim surprised her.

“Go ahead, Little D.”

“Don’t call me that,” Damian snapped, glaring at Stephanie.

“I told you—B wouldn’t harm his son,” Tim coaxed, all soothing big-brother cadence. “Don’t be afraid. Go when ready.”

"Afraid?” Damian immediately bit, hissing as if trying to intimidate both of them. “I’m not afraid of my own father, Drake! Unlike you! You’re all paralyzed, doing nothing!”

Guess which one of us still hasn’t faced B? Stephanie nearly said. She was centuries ahead of Damian in confronting a criminal father (yes, she dared to call Bruce that). Sure, Damian might’ve been raised as a vessel or heir by terrorists, but it wasn’t betrayal. Damian had always known the League’s intentions, but he’d never imagined his father would one day stand against him.

When Stephanie’s father had returned home, hugged her, and claimed he’d been “cleared,” part of her had wanted to believe him, to end her fatherless life. Then it turned out he just wanted to keep committing crimes, so she’d arrested Cluemaster herself. She wouldn’t recommend starting a superhero career that way. Tim’s father had mostly tried to keep him safe at home, but Stephanie had genuinely dreamed of her father breaking out of prison to kill her.

“Sure you want to sabotage my mission like this, Red Robin?” Stephanie asked airily. “With my college career hanging by a thread?” ”

It wasn’t that dire. She might’ve been a bit sleepy, but her course load wasn’t heavy, and dozing in class was a routine part of her double life.

“Thought I’d slipped that past you,” Tim admitted after a beat, laughing weakly.

“Don’t drag me into your infantile games!” Damian snarled, leaping off the rooftop

Stephanie flicked back to surveillance. Bruce still slept peacefully, oblivious to the rooftop drama. Damian hadn’t barged in.

Tim switched to a more secure channel, dropping the big-brother act the moment she answered. “I know. Bad idea.”

“Know what’s throwing you off?”

“Won’t drop the sleep thing, huh?”

“Or would you prefer discussing whose successor you still want to be?” Stephanie snorted. “Sneaking into your brother’s room to check if he’s in bed? So sweet it’s rotting my teeth, RR. I wouldn’t even blink if you started cuddling Little D—though I might scream from the cuteness.”

“Spare me,” Tim said, genuinely horrified. “I just figured since we can’t watch him 24/7, if he’s determined to see B, now might be the best time. You’re there, comms are sparse—just me and Penny One.”

“And no Nightwing,” Stephanie noted. Tim didn’t deny it.

“Whatever the brat wants to say, he won’t want us hearing it. Today’s a scouting run,” Tim fretted. “I think he’ll strike when Oracle’s on duty. She can’t get there herself.”

“Listen to you, such a good big brother,” Stephanie teased. “Growing up, Red.”

“Returning to the Cave later?” Tim asked after banter. “Penny One says Batman’s staying. Cooking a feast.”

“Wow, not even letting me refuse, RR.”

“Penny One will be pleased.”

Lately, Stephanie had noticed a strange tension in Tim’s tone whenever he mentioned Alfred. She couldn’t imagine the butler clashing with the kids. Alfred would never abandon Bruce, but he’d always been a neutral, unconditional source of comfort- the buffer in Bruce’s dysfunctional family.

But since tests confirmed Bruce hadn’t been poisoned, controlled, or replaced by a parallel universe counterpart, no Bat was functioning normally. Gang wars were brewing, yet in this relatively calm period, Jason had stayed at the Manor for two consecutive days—unthinkable before. Quoting Dick was practically admitting defeat with Damian, something Tim would’ve never done a week ago. And Jason’s presence meant Damian had shown remarkable restraint on patrol. The kid was an expert at pushing buttons (matching his own sensitivity).

“Ever feel like we’re penguins?” Stephanie mused, watching Bruce shift on-screen. “Storm’s coming, so we huddle together—past fights and stolen fish forgotten.”

Tim chuckled. “You’ve been watching too many of Little D’s animal documentaries.”

“They’re adorable!” Stephanie protested. “You know, I think you’re second only to Little D in needing fluffy energy. Even Batman—any version—has you beat. Don’t abandon the ocean for one spiky fish.”

“Your forwarded videos are enough,” Tim dismissed. Stephanie was sure half the time he only pretended to watch them, even if his comments were spot-on. During their first fling, Tim had mastered half-heartedness. She couldn’t believe she’d tolerated dating someone who refused to take off his mask.

They’d repeat the same mistakes—if Stephanie claimed she hadn’t considered it, she’d be lying. Bad things happened to everyone trying to fix Gotham. They’d all lost Robin. Tim had gained a few assassin contacts, lost his spleen, and something more vital. She’d nearly been tortured to death (actually died for a bit) and earned the Batgirl title without Bruce or Tim.They weren’t the kids who’d first hunted Cluemaster, yet when Red Robin and Batgirl soared together, the spark remained—a miracle, really.

“If you still won’t tell me what Bruce said to you,” she yawned, “at least tell me you want me to watch for Little D stabbing B, okay? None of us really think B would attack Robin.”

She didn’t get Tim’s reply. Moments later, Alfred informed her Red Robin had returned to his room to catch up on sleep, as she’d requested.

Chapter Text

23.

Dick wasn’t surprised when the window rattled. As the family member with the most connections to other superhero teams—especially after Tim cut ties to search for Bruce and Dick’s interim Batman earned the Justice League’s trust—the world had grown accustomed to contacting Gotham’s “friendlier” Dark Knight for major crises.

He knew this was a form of twisted penance: fresh disasters forced him to re-examine every past failure, even those unrelated to the current mess. He knew he shouldn’t dwell on what-ifs. Barbara had calmly laid it out—Gotham was on the brink of war, Jason killing again, Tim’s theories lacked proof, and Damian was torn between his parents’ teachings. There were no perfect solutions; he’d made the best choices possible.

She’d convinced him logically, but logic wasn’t a cure-all. Every time Tim’s polite distance stung, Dick remembered his little brother leaving the Cave hollow-eyed, returning as someone unrecognizable—like Jason. He was the worst kind of person: terrified of being alone, yet incapable of handling true intimacy, perpetually disappointing those who loved him. In some ways, he was worse than Bruce—after all, Bruce had never deliberately invited anyone into his orbit.

But hovering outside his window was the world’s strongest and kindest superhero, which mattered more than self-pity. Clark wasn’t just Bruce’s closest friend but also one of Dick’s best friends and mentors, as well as an excellent journalist—tripling the difficulty of hiding the truth. With Clark’s help, stopping Bruce would be much easier… but Dick couldn’t bear the thought of Clark, with his red cape and boundless sincerity, confronting Bruce in his current state. Not to mention the other superheroes who knew Batman’s identity. Dick had fled his crumbling family; he owed it to them to at least handle this.

“Hi,” Clark whispered, awkwardly folding himself through the window. His smile—reserved for friends, not the public—usually warmed Dick. “Neighbors didn’t spot me.”

“Wouldn’t matter. Superman visiting a cop isn’t weird, and Officer Grayson already has Nightwing as a superhero partner.” Dick stalled, closing the window and curtains to avoid eye contact. “New residents are scarce, gangs haven’t regrouped. The mayor wants to build a ‘brighter Blüdhaven,’ but corruption’s sprouting faster.”

“This city has Nightwing. I have no doubt it’ll shine,” Clark said with Superman’s trademark confidence. If Batman had taught Dick to always prepare for the worst, Superman had given him faith in humanity—a miracle, given the horrors Clark heard daily.

Dick really didn’t want to be the one to break the news to Clark, for purely selfish reasons.

“So, you’re here about Bruce?” Dick leaned back, his hips resting on the windowsill. He didn’t bother faking a smile—Clark would see through it instantly.

“Can’t I check on my friend?” Clark’s earnest tone felt like a cattle prod. “I was glad to hear Nightwing returned. You love this city.”

“Yeah, well…” Dick bit his cheek, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say Bruce’s… dealing with something. We know what’s going on, and we’ve got it covered.”

“Figured,” Clark nodded, no interrogation. “Timeline?”

“Months, maybe?” Dick shrugged. “Batman’s taking leave. I’ll cover League duties. It’s… a Gotham matter.”

“You know, I prefer your version of ‘get out of my Gotham,’” Clark chuckled. If he listened to Dick’s heartbeat, the jig would be up. But he was too good, too trusting of his friends, to do that without permission.

“We agreed Bruce was a jerk when I was ten.”

“Yeah, but he’s our jerk,” Clark’s smile softened. “Rough week?”

Dick exhaled deeply, letting himself tremble. “You've no idea.”

“We all know Bruce’s code. And the Joker’s always…” Clark hesitated. “The murder part’s true?”

“Bullet to the head. Unless he cloned himself.” Dick’s voice tightened. “It’s… messy. Bruce isn’t free yet. Not his first murder accusation, right?”

Clark paused—he’d seen Bruce’s rage after Jason’s death. “You're OK?”

“Tim says Jason’s subbing as Batman, so… survivable.” Dick stared at Superman’s red boot tips. “We’re… not aligned. Hence my escape.”

“But you’re going back,” Clark said, his hand on Dick’s shoulder nearly breaking him. “I know Dick Grayson. He always fights for the people he loves, and never stays away from his family for long—even when furious.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Dick leaned forward, wrapping his right arm around Clark and patting his back, hoping it read as weary camaraderie. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Thanks, Clark.”

Clark hugged him tightly, giving him a moment before switching to a lighter tone. “By the way, Perry’s salivating over this story. If he sends me to Gotham…”

“Ah,” Dick took a deep breath. “Better you than Vicki Vale.”

“I’ll try to pawn it off on Jimmy.”

“Keep an eye on Blüdhaven for me? I’m not as territorial as some chiropteran mammals. Nightwing always finds his Flamebird.”

“Always.” Clark squeezed tighter. “It’s an honor, Nightwing. Call if you need me.”

It was enough. He’d steered the conversation perfectly—hinting at family drama, downplaying the severity, and asking for help. Clark left satisfied, convinced the League needn’t intervene.

As Clark critiqued his apartment decor and the mold on the leftover pizza (from Barbara’s visit), Dick realized none of them had checked how Bruce was adjusting to this timeline. He finally excused himself, ushering Superman out at an absurdly early hour.

He stayed vigilant until Clark’s heartbeat faded. Dick checked his phone, surprised to find the last message was from Damian—like Alfred and Tim hours earlier—asking if he’d return for dinner tomorrow, “to marginally alleviate the insufferable table congestion.” Even in a family allergic to sincerity, Damian and Bruce monopolized 90% of Dick’s “I love you” dialects.

Clark was right. Dick would always circle back to his family.

He replied with a “Yes” and asked Alfred to prepare an extra vegan dish.

24.

Whether Bruce Wayne is capable of being responsible for his own actions involves the interests of many stakeholders, and mostly driven by them, the municipal government has repeatedly advanced the date for sending the Joker case suspect to Arkham for psychiatric evaluation. Barbara obtained the route and license plate number arranged by the police, and Batman (played by Dick), along with Robin, Batgirl, Red Hood, and Black Bat, went to key locations along the way in advance to stand by. Tim, tied up in an online international meeting, reluctantly stayed at Wayne Tower with the communication on, planning to slaughter his business partners with maximum efficiency before joining Black Bat at Arkham.

Barbara, of course, coordinated the overall situation from the Tower. Earlier, Dick hinted that after the diagnosis, he wanted to talk to Bruce face to face (perhaps with Damian), and she agreed to give them space. Overall, she believed that from the perspective of what Bruce would do, today's risk was not significant. A person may break the principles they have upheld for years at certain junctures, but the personality they have cultivated throughout their entire life will not suddenly reverse. Although Bruce's ability is unquestionable, he cannot conjure up weapons and other resources out of thin air, and it is not his style to make a desperate fight on the spur of the moment. Therefore, she created special files for everyone Bruce contacted with after his surrender and cross-checked their whereabouts with gang activities to speculate on the timing of Bruce's attack.

Most of them are police officers, and the advantage is that it makes it relatively easy to restore their movement trajectories through the police department's (with a terrible firewall) internal system and radio. Unfortunately, most of them are running around Gotham, and since the group of subordinates her father trusted most were kicked out of the Joker murder case along with him, two-thirds of the current task force members have dirty hands, which has increased her workload significantly. However, as always, she managed and calculated, based on the available intelligence, that there were still a few days left until that day.

So, they are fully prepared more to save Bruce from the city. Believe it or not, there are a large number of people in Gotham who are willing to risk their lives for the Joker. The soil here nurtures despair and madness, and blind obedience is its by-product. Every top villain has their own diehard fans, always ready to serve them, seek revenge, or take over their unfinished business. If you decide to stop them by shooting in the head, you must fire more than one shot. Besides, the forces that simply want to eliminate Bruce Wayne cannot be underestimated.

"Something's wrong," Dick broke the silence on the public channel. "One of the people who was supposed to follow the car suddenly seemed unwell, and it was after they had contact with the target."

Barbara pulled up the personnel information based on the surveillance footage and had an ominous premonition at a glance, while Jason cursed.

"Let me guess, the replacement is a dirty cop?"

"Yes," she replied, and the channel was instantly filled with curses. "A rather dirty one. The target must have figured out the schedule. Now all three police officers in that car are... you know what I mean."

"I can puncture the tires," Dick suggested. "Force them to reschedule, or bring professionals from Arkham."

"Unless you destroy all the police cars, I don't see how this would do anything other than waste a little time," Damian said harshly. "Then all the police in Gotham will have to run around today showing their incompetence."

"The option of not transferring the suspect and conducting the diagnosis directly at the police station has been rejected. Experts believe that there are too many environmental stress factors in the police station, which are not conducive to the formation of an objective and fair result. It's difficult for the defense to object to this opinion," Barbara considered whether to contact the Birds. She didn't want all of Gotham's heros forces to be concentrated on one thing.

"Yeah, I can attest that Arkham is a warm, stress-free home," Jason sneered, causing a moment of silence.

"Nobody fucking talk to me about 'talking' about this, don't even think about it," he added.

"They're getting in the car," Dick cleared his throat and gave the make and license plate number. "Target is in handcuffs, but he only needs a minute to get out of them, or ten seconds if he doesn't care about getting hurt."

"If he's planning to cause a car accident, getting hurt is definitely not a concern," Stephanie said gloomily.

"On the way," Tim cut in, with a gust of wind.

None of them were surprised when the police car deviated from the road two blocks away from Arkham, crashed into an abandoned factory, and immediately exploded and caught fire.

Chapter Text

25.

“So, let’s go chronologically,” Dick said, clad in the full Batman suit with the cowl draped behind him. “When Bruce was kidnapped by Scarecrow, he stole a vial of fear toxin, and somehow hid it on his person while under its effects, then brought it back to the GCPD.”

“I’m not even curious how he pulled that off,” Stephanie muttered, slouched sideways in her chair, chin propped on her hand. Her elbow pressed against the armrest’s button, sending the surveillance footage into rapid fast-forward. “Anyway, he hid the fear toxin under mine, Tim’s, and Barbara’s noses for six days and used it at least four times.”

“Stealing those useless pens and killing Carter were just distractions,” Damian snapped, shoving her arm aside to free the button. Stephanie leaned back, letting him take over. “I warned you—you’re all too terrified of Father to see clearly. Excluding me like a child didn’t help. If I’d been overseeing Father, I would’ve—”

“Damian!” Dick shot a sharp look at Robin, though it was pointless to wonder if Damian had seen the footage. “This isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s Bruce. No one could’ve seen this coming.”

“I believe unity is our priority now,” Alfred interjected, refilling Stephanie’s teacup.

Damian huffed and stomped off to a corner, arms crossed.

“He administered the toxin three times to suspects he encountered and once to Officer Fuller. Sub-lethal doses mimicked gastrointestinal distress or flu symptoms,” Dick continued. “Bruce manipulated the GCPD’s rotations to ensure only corrupt officers escorted him to Arkham. But his goal wasn’t to kill them—he wanted us to think it was.”

“He didn’t kill any of them. He stole their guns, crashed the car into Penguin’s drug lab, blew the fuel tank, and escaped while we were busy rescuing those scumbags. Along the way, he blew up two weapon caches,” Stephanie’s voice rose. “Clearly, like with the goons, he didn’t care if we got hurt—or caught in the blasts.”

Pre-installed bugs and cameras had broadcast the chaos live. Black Bat had jumped onto the car's roof the moment Bruce slid into the driver’s seat, but he seized the wheel and accelerator before she could intervene, making it impossible to target the vehicle without endangering her. Barbara couldn’t remotely halt the car either. In those critical seconds, Bruce didn’t bother with the handcuffs—he struck the driver’s solar plexus, grabbed his gun, and shot the other two officers. The car crashed through a wall, forcing the vigilantes to prioritize the explosion and fire. Two minutes later, Tim found the bloodied handcuffs fifty meters away. Beyond that, Bruce left no traceable blood, likely escaping into Gotham’s labyrinthine sewers.

Cassandra sustained minor burns and scrapes. If anyone else boarded that car, it would’ve been far worse. She refused to return to the Cave, accepting first aid before joining Red Hood and Red Robin in searching Bruce’s scattered safehouses. Barbara provided tech support from the Batcomputer, but no one held much hope—Bruce’s undisclosed hideouts likely tripled the number they’d hidden from him.

“We’ve been handling this,” Dick said, a defensive edge in his voice. “He knows our capabilities, especially Cass’s. He knew she’d manage.”

Stephanie turned her head away; only Damian nodded. The unspoken flaw in their analysis glared: their critical failure to treat Bruce as an enemy. They’d assumed he’d stop short of truly harming them, as he had during prior confrontations—not fighting back, letting Jason disarm him, meekly surrendering stolen weapons. Even after shattering his code, they’d clung to the delusion that Bruce would never hurt his family.

But what if that delusion was part of his design?

“From another perspective,” Alfred said, “the fact that Master Bruce has a plan—rather than indiscriminately creating corpses—suggests he remains reachable.”

“We can convince Father to abandon this and return,” Damian said slowly. “Is that your meaning, Pennyworth?”

“I shall not presume to predict our success,” the butler replied. “But there is always more we can do. We do not abandon family, no matter how lost they seem.”

Every eye at the Batcomputer turned to him, worry and hope intertwined. It was easy to see the roots of Batman’s quiet influence in Alfred. Bruce’s constant readiness for catastrophe often left him unable to offer his children security or warmth. So Alfred, day after day, prepared rooms, cooked meals, and dispelled their fears of rejection and harm. These two were the longest-standing partners—the pillars of the orphanage they calledhome.

"We’re bringing Bruce back. Together.” Dick declared firmly, as if this were his unshakable duty. “And then we’ll make him pay for everything we’ve been through. He’s not getting away with this.”

“Language, Master Richard,” Alfred chided gently. “Though I understand and agree with the sentiment.”

“This time, it won’t just be a slap,” Stephanie said, shaking her fist. “He hurt Cass. I won’t forgive him until he’s made up for it.”

The heavy atmosphere lightened slightly as they began discussing their next steps with renewed determination. Dick called Barbara, and Stephanie tried reaching Tim. But Stephanie couldn’t get through, while Barbara informed them that Black Bat and Batwoman were handling a bank robbery, and Red Robin and Red Hood had checked in ten minutes ago before going silent.

“Damn it!” Stephanie jumped to her feet. Dick immediately donned his cowl, and Damian sprinted toward the Batmobile. “Their last location?”

“Hold on, I’m putting it on the screen. They haven’t moved,” Barbara replied. The central screen displayed a map of the East End, with red and yellow triangles marking their trackers. Of course, there were no cameras in that area. “I think they just needed to talk. Since they let us know, we’ll probably get the results of their discussion.”

“Or the ‘results’ they’ve cooked up to deceive us,” Damian muttered darkly, not returning to the screen. “Why else cut comms? They’re discussing something they don’t want us to know.”

“Everyone in this family has secrets,” Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Get used to it, Little D.”

“This isn’t about their petty issues! This is about my father!” Damian leapt into the Batmobile. “I’m done waiting around for you incompetents—”

“Robin! Wait!” Dick rushed after him.

“Let him go—”

“Stay out of this, Grayson! Even if you’re useless—”

“Children.” Alfred’s commanding voice froze them all.

“Are you stopping me from finding my father too, Pennyworth?” Damian turned, chin held high.

“No. But when Master Jason first returned, Master Bruce said something to me. I scolded him for treating Jason more like an enemy than a son,” Alfred said sorrowfully. “Yet I couldn’t deny the truth in his words. Now, it falls to me to say this—Master Bruce is dangerous, to us, to Gotham, and to himself. We must be prepared to stop him at all costs. Please, be careful, my children.”

26.

When Jason reconnected to the comms, the public channel carried Damian’s slightly trembling voice: “Father wouldn’t…” Of course, Jason didn’t know Damian was staring at the dots marking his and Tim’s location, nor did he plan to ask about the earlier discussion in the Cave.

“Hey, Red’s got an idea. The kind you won’t like.” Thanks to the voice modulator, no one could hear the Lazarus Pit’s rumble in his throat or guess how close he was to shooting someone in the head. Red Robin, standing right in front of him, knew full well—either the kid had admirable guts or a death wish, or both.

“Hood and I agree this is the most likely scenario. It explains a lot of the oddities,” Tim paused, taking a deep breath. “B’s working with the League of Assassins.”

“What?”

“Why?”

“Are you insane?”

“If sending me to Arkham would fix this, I’d go myself, Robin,” Tim said wearily. “Ra’s has never fully given up on Gotham. After the Joker, he’d definitely try to contact B. I’m not sure if they communicated during his incarceration, but I doubt it. Now, B’s probably found them.”

“But why?” Dick asked again, his panicked tone clawing at Jason’s ribs. “Why the League?”

“Did he go to Mother?” Damian whispered.

“The Lazarus Pit,” Jason forced the words out, swallowing bile and suppressing the green, the blood, the violence, and worse—the laughter. His heart pounded wildly, pumping less and less blood. Metal scraped against stone, his bones snapping one by one, limbs twisted and useless.

“…Over twenty severe fractures, half of which didn’t heal properly, especially his back. It’s slowed him down,” Tim was speaking, firmly gripping Jason’s hand, as if unaware Jason could snap his neck at any moment. “Before resuming solo missions, he’d need to restore his body. The Pit can heal those injuries. I confirmed it.”

“When Talia found me, I was a zombie—barely reactive, no consciousness,” Tim tugged his hand, shaking his head, but Jason continued. “She guessed it was because I was too badly injured before the explosion—brain-dead. That’s why she dunked me in the Pit. She gambled. She was right. I came back perfect, all old injuries gone. She trained me afterward… helped me get used to killing.”

“Good Lord,” Alfred murmured.

“There’s another reason,” Tim pressed on ruthlessly. “I think once they’ve struck a deal, Bruce Wayne will die—publicly, permanently.”

Chapter Text

27.

Judging that Jason needed his full attention more than reacting to the news like others, Tim maintained his grip on Jason and cut off the communication.

Neither of them had removed their hand armor, so Tim couldn't tell if Jason's hand was as cold and sweaty as his own. Obviously, Jason didn't respond to his grip, let alone show any intention of taking off his hood. For family members, communicating with Jason had always been like navigating through waters filled with reefs, and topics about death and resurrection were even more taboo than murder. Jason's death was cruel, violent, and meaningless (he felt sorry about the last part), and Tim didn't think the fifteen-year-old Jason had much affection for his birth mother. He mostly wanted to escape the escalating disagreements with Bruce and retaliatorily violated every teaching that Bruce had drilled into him: slipping out of Batman's protective range, not conducting a thorough background check on Sheila, and recklessly exposing his dual identity.

But in reality, every Robin had done the same, EVERY. Kids run out of the house, convinced that the streets aren't dangerous, and they shouldn't be proven wrong—if that turns out to be the case, then it's the world that should be found guilty; similarly, a teenager's rebellion and confusion shouldn't lead to him being betrayed by his birth mother to the Joker and dying tragically from beatings and explosions. Jason's death was a terrible mistake. Tim wouldn't say this to Jason, but it didn't stop him from forming his own opinion.

The most annoying thing about working with Bruce wasn't even the mountainous emotional barriers, his rigor, paranoia, and control freak tendencies, but the fact that you knew his accusations would be right in the worst-case scenario and could save your life, yet you just couldn't live that way, so his attacks always hit you where it hurt. He could easily make you feel like everything was your fault, because that's how he treated himself. Excessive guilt and responsibility were part of Bruce's self-protection mechanism. After all, if you blame everything on yourself, you can further deduce that if you had done better, tragedies could have been avoided, and conclude that you're not powerless.

"The world," or the systematic injustice and corruption of human society, is the source of most tragedies, but individual members of society still need more specific targets for their anger. Good people always choose themselves first, and when the world's mistakes become too much for their egos to bear, they find it hard to avoid hurting each other. It's an indisputable fact that Bruce has stricter requirements for his family than for ordinary people or even criminals, and it's also hard for the kids to stop holding Bruce responsible for everything that happens to them. They're all banging their heads bloody in this vicious cycle. Dick found his balance, Jason learned the hardest lesson, and Tim, taking others as examples, accepted the reality early on that Bruce would never truly change for anyone. They could only choose to stand by Bruce's side or leave.

Tim made his choice, over and over again. No matter how much he lost on this path or how much he had to give up, he would return to Bruce, back under the shadow of the Bat—but now it was Bruce who had changed his position. And Bruce was probably, perhaps, about to detonate all of Jason's minefields.

"Big Red?" Tim called tentatively as Jason pulled his hand away.

Even standing on the same plane, he still had to look up at Jason. Compared to the Robin that Tim had chased after with his camera when he was ten, the Red Hood was simply a giant. This was probably some kind of revenge—his conflicts with Jason were no less than those with Dick. At least Dick hadn't repeatedly tried to kill him or called him a "replacement." However, after placing high hopes on Dick and not getting the ideal response, approaching Jason had become the easier option. He couldn't mess up his relationship with Jason. With something as bad as it could get, all you could do was maintain the status quo or improve it, so he and Jason had ended up here.

Jason undid the buckle, pulled off his gloves, and threw them at his feet. Tim instinctively recognized the callus from holding a gun. Dick, as a police officer, and Alfred, as a former agent, also had such calluses, but they were accustomed to different models. Tim hadn't told anyone about Alfred bringing a gun to see Bruce. He didn't know (or more accurately, didn't want to face) what impact this would have on others. Alfred loved every member of the family deeply, but his loyalty always pointed to Bruce. When it came to matters concerning Bruce, the old butler's judgment was never wrong – a fact that was being proven step by step.

"Uh, Jason?" Tim couldn't help but call out Jason's name as a bare hand reached towards his neck. Jason's movement was slow, giving him enough time to dodge, so there shouldn't be any danger. Tim just needed to overcome his psychological barrier. No problem, he had been overcoming psychological barriers all his life.

The touch on his neck felt a bit damp, but wearing heavily padded gloves made it easy to sweat. Besides, Jason's hand was quite rough and large. Tim's half-face mask formed a grotesque shadow on the expressionless red hood. He remained still, his throat tense, struggling hard against the urge to swallow.

"I'm going to kill him," the mechanical voice processed by the hood said at this moment, nearly choking Tim with his own saliva.

"Wh-what?" Tim desperately adjusted his breathing and stepped back slightly to avoid bumping into Jason when he coughed. Jason didn't dodge. Instead, his fingers chased after Tim's neck, more deliberately touching the place on Tim's throat that he had once slit. Tim suddenly realized and caught up with Jason's train of thought, making his back feel as if someone had lifted his cape and poured a bucket of ice water inside his uniform.

"This isn't—"

"If he dares to turn himself into this, I'll kill him," Jason spread his thumb apart from his other four fingers, slightly squeezing Tim's throat. Tim couldn't tell if he was serious or just venting his anger, but his hand was shaking so badly that Tim really started to worry about throat bones. "I'll do what he should have done a long time ago. Always."

"No!" Tim grabbed Jason's forearm. "He wouldn't do that, and neither will you. We won't do this to each other."

"YOU won't," Jason's speech slowed down, as if to express contempt. "Because you're Batman's legacy, believing that everyone deserves a second chance and justice over revenge and all that. But the Red Hood is the JOKER'S legacy. I chose the Joker because Batman is just a fucking coward."

"You don't mean that," Tim said hurriedly, his heart starting to race. "I understand you're angry—"

"You understand shit!" Jason's assertion slapped Tim in the face. "He should have killed me a long time ago! He should have valued protecting Gotham and his son more than keeping his precious hands clean! If he couldn't protect me, at least he should have realized he should protect you, at any cost! I shouldn't be breathing after doing something like this, just like the Joker shouldn't have been after killing me!"

"This is different! You're not—Jason!" The pressure on his neck suddenly increased. Tim stared wide-eyed at the hood pressing against his face and scrambled like an amateur to pry off the fingers gripping his neck.

"If he had to cut my throat, it should have been for this," Jason said softly. "Not for the fucking Joker."

Tim quickly went through the equipment he had that could be used against Jason. His disadvantage in size and weight gave him little chance in close combat, especially since Jason already had a hold on a vital spot. The worst part was that Tim had almost no motivation to launch a decent counterattack. Fully armed, he felt both terrified and weak. The foreseeable future made sorrow almost overflow from his constricted throat.

"Shut up!" Jason roared, letting go of his hand. Tim instinctively ran and rolled before he taking a relieved breath. By the time he realized from the sound of bullets hitting cement that they were rubber, Jason had already pushed him to a distance where Jason could throw a smoke bomb and disappear. Tim rushed to where Jason had been and kicked the glove Jason had left behind.

Tim retreated from the smoke, knowing it was impossible to catch up with Jason. He leaned against a water tower on another rooftop, panting for a while, and then opened his communicator. As soon as he said "Red Robin," a tsunami of concern from his family washed over him. Indeed, Jason had made his declaration on the public channel just now.

Immediately afterward, a colossal noise drowned out everyone's voices as someone pressed the transmit end against the siren of a fire truck, causing Tim's shoulders to hunch up to his ears and his teeth to clench in discomfort. A few seconds later, Stephanie quickly backed away from the fire truck while shouting, "Everyone shut up! Red Robin, how are you doing?"

"How am I supposed to obey the order to shut up and answer your question?" Tim sat down, realizing that at least two groups of people were approaching at full speed.

"Quit the sarcasm, Square R!" Stephanie aurally relaxed, "Do you know how scary that was just now?"

"I know, trust me, I was right there." Tim rubbed his neck, which probably wouldn't bruise. "He didn't hurt me, well, not really. If I had to describe it, it was probably the strangest confession I've ever heard."

"I haven't heard many confessions, but I've doubt people don't choke priests or use them as targets when they confess." Stephanie clearly wasn't convinced. "You, stay put. I'm heading over there."

"Really, it's not necessary—"

"I'm already out here. Do you think I get many chances to sit in the Batmobile's driver's seat?" Stephanie's words were mixed with the sound of the wind, and Tim couldn't help but smile, imagining her with the car window wide open and her blonde hair flying. "If you make me go back, I'll murder you."

"Alright, but where's the fire?"

"Don't worry, the firefighters can handle. I'm keeping an eye on it," Barbara said. "Also, the Red Hood destroyed the tracker. I'm trying to trace his escape route through surveillance, but there aren't many cameras in that area."

"Damn it!" Dick swore.

"No one's staying at the Batcave?"

"Just Penny One," Stephanie huffed. "You know, Robin didn't even fight me for the wheel. He loves you so much."

"Wow, really?" Tim chuckled, hoping he sounded casual. Stephanie had guessed that what he really wanted to ask about was Damian, and the fact that the kid hadn't mocked Tim (or anyone) since they connected communications spoke volumes about the seriousness of the situation.

"You talk too much, fat girl." Damian's rebuttal came a beat too late, lacking his usual arrogance and instead sounding distracted. "I was just being efficient."

Tim furrowed his brow, contemplating what level of provocation would elicit more words from Damian without damaging their fragile, newly improved relationship. He'd had enough of constantly guarding against the young assassin. Suddenly, another shadow emerged from the shadow of the water tower and waved at him. Tim looked up and saw Black Bat. When Cassandra felt like it, she could terrify any of them.

"Hey," Tim smiled at her. "How's the bank—"

Cassandra leaped down gracefully, arms outstretched, so Tim didn't waste any more words and throw himself into his sister's arms.

Chapter Text

28.

After Father’s escape, even the (extremely amateur) security and legal teams couldn’t disperse the reporters swarming the manor. So far, they’d removed twenty-six cameras and bugs, most of whose installers were caught red-handed. The legal team was preparing to sue the intruders and their employers with the full force of the law.

Until the situation improved, they had to use alternate routes for patrols to avoid the Batmobile being spotted near the manor, which slowed Batman’s response time by ten to fifteen minutes. To compensate, Drake and Brown had returned to their own apartments in Gotham—partly to keep an eye on Todd. According to Oracle, shortly after Red Hood’s declaration, he’d returned to his territory, dispersed the Joker’s followers at the crime scene, and smashed their memorial altar to pieces—which, unsurprisingly, contained Joker toxin bombs.

Before anyone could intervene, Red Hood had left four people severely injured and twelve with minor wounds. No one died, though it didn’t seem intentional—more like he’d fired wildly into the crowd of Joker-wannabes and swung his gun like a club, letting the chips fall where they may. No one sympathized with idiots planning to gas an entire neighborhood, but Todd’s casual violence was never a good sign. Damian didn’t think Todd could kill Father, but if he tried and Father retaliated… it would cause massive problems for Gotham and the vigilantes’ work.

In short, the manor’s residents had dwindled to normal levels, increasing Damian’s opportunity. The original plan was to cause chaos by storming out of the manor—he’d feel no guilt beating those vultures bloody, and it fit the others’ stereotypes (Grayson childishly called it “staying in character”), making it less suspicious. If all went well, Grayson would ground him again. While Batman and Black Bat patrolled, Pennyworth would be in the Cave assisting, and Damian could act alone while pretending to stay put.

But Cain intercepted him. As Damian expected, she was a major obstacle. He’d hoped she’d stick with Brown and Drake, those incompetent fools. Damian immediately switched to Plan B, slashing at Cain with his sword.

“Oh my God!”

“Is that Damian and Cassandra?”

“Is that a real sword?”

Amid the shutter clicks and idiots’ gasps, two women debated calling the police, while someone eagerly called “Travers” to brag about their scoop. Damian took a moment to hurl a pebble, destroying his camera and phone. Cain didn’t stop him but used the distraction to grab his blade bare-handed, sparking more uproar.

Her strength was undeniable, but neither wore armor. Damian could twist the blade, crippling her right hand and wounding her. He could.

“Damian!” Grayson’s voice came from the manor’s front door, rapidly approaching. Damian lowered the blade, noting the blood Cain left when she released it. This would make Grayson furious—mission accomplished.

The reporters abandoned all pretense of decorum.

“God, that’s real blood! She’s hurt—”

“Damn it, my gear! That little—”

“He attacked her with a real katana—”

“Didn’t Cassandra grab the blade herself? How dare she—”

Cain turned her back to the flashes, ignoring the chaos, standing between Damian and the gate less than five feet away. She wore a purple hoodie that definitely belonged to Brown and black sweatpants with torn knees, likely from Drake (who’d probably gotten them from the clone brat). Her hands hung at her sides, her sad eyes fixed on Damian. He heard excited murmurs about whether she was crying, with some trying to angle for a shot of her face. He wanted to slit their throats or skewer them, but first, he needed Cain back inside. Unlike Drake, she avoided social events with Father.

“Get back inside!” Damian’s head thudded against Grayson’s chest in what looked like an overly sentimental, circus-style hug, but Grayson firmly restrained Damian’s arms, making his sword clatter to the driveway. Then Grayson froze, noticing Cain’s bleeding hand.

“Damn it, Damian! How could you?” He tightened his grip, and Damian hissed in pain, gritting his teeth but not struggling as Grayson carried him into the manor like a child. Pennyworth hurried past them to deal with the reporters alongside the security team.

Only after Cain closed the door behind them did Grayson drop Damian. Damian reached for his sword, which Cain had retrieved, but Grayson intercepted it, hurling it across the living room, ignoring Damian’s protests about damaging the blade. He dragged Damian through the foyer, his fingers like vices around Damian’s wrist, not looking back once. He shoved Damian against the banister, ordered Cain to sit, and fetched the first aid kit.

“Cut’s not deep, but it might need stitches,” Grayson said after cleaning the wound, relieved.

“No,” Cain said.

“But—”

“No.”

“Fine, we’ll ask Alfred. If he agrees, no stitches.” Grayson sighed, spraying disinfectant on Cain’s hand. “But you’ll need new gloves tonight, no matter how much you hate losing finger dexterity.”

Cain agreed, tapping Grayson’s right bicep with her left fist.

“Big brother,” she said. Grayson blinked, then laughed—but his brows furrowed, his smile tired and bitter, the kind you force when you’re barely holding it together.

Emotions born from interpersonal interactions, whether joy or sorrow, are nothing but signs of weakness and foolishness. Grayson’s perspective couldn’t be more different. After repeated attempts to change each other’s minds ended in failure, they reached a compromise, much like their agreements on many other issues: Grayson would tone down his criticism, and Damian would reduce the kind of words and actions that Grayson was likely to oppose. However, if Damian couldn’t escape Grayson’s foolish smile for the time being, between two evils, the honest one was slightly better than the one used for disguise.

“Alright, Little D,” Grayson said with that terrible smile, waving Damian over. Damian didn’t move. His chest tightened when Grayson lost the smile, turned his head, and wiped his face with his palm. The first time this happened, Damian thought Grayson had infected him with some kind of virus. Then Grayson stood up, walked over to Damian, and squeezed his shoulder. Damian knew full well that his goal was to provoke Grayson, but when Grayson’s body language indicated he wasn’t angry enough to be unbearable, the knot in Damian’s chest loosened a little. A voice in his head, eerily similar to his mother’s, accused him of weakness. He let Grayson gently push him to sit on the couch, with Grayson sitting sideways at the other end—a more “family-style” rather than disciplinary approach.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt Cass—and you shouldn’t have grabbed the blade with your bare hands, Cass,” Cain put on an innocent expression, spreading her hands. Grayson turned back to Damian, adopting a serious look that didn’t suit him. “But you shouldn’t swing a blade at your siblings, no matter what. We’ve talked about this, Little D, and I wasn’t just talking about Tim. Also, I hate those reporters outside too, but we’ve also talked about not attacking them just because we dislike them.”

Damian’s mouth twitched. This was exactly the reaction he wanted from Grayson, but Grayson’s assumption that his self-control was so fragile annoyed him. The longer he stayed with Father, the more often he found himself in such contradictions. He admitted that, even without a plan, he might have caused trouble for those reporters, but he would never do so in a way that linked Damian Wayne to Robin—that was practically the bottom line for staying in this family. He might have used a high-pressure water gun, an electromagnetic pulse, or Batcow dung, depending on the situation.

Grayson misinterpreted his micro-expression. “This isn’t funny, Damian! Maybe you think beating up a few people will make you feel better, but it’ll only cause more trouble! We already have enough trouble—I know we haven’t talked about that yet, and that’s my fault—”

“Nothing is your fault!” Damian finally snapped. “I’ve had enough, Grayson! And I don’t want to hear you say we should tolerate any of those lowlifes!”

“No one is a ‘lowlife’!” Grayson roared, his fingers digging into the couch. “Damian, can’t you—my mother is Romani. You called me a ‘circus clown’ when you first arrived. Do you still think I’m a lowlife too?”

“No,” Damian said, though he should have said “Yes.” During the time they thought Father was dead, Damian should have returned to the League of Assassins, to Mother’s side… but he didn’t. He told himself it was because he needed to complete Father’s training, and if Father couldn’t finish it, Father’s top disciple would have to suffice.

“Good,” Grayson’s tone softened. “Those reporters—they’re not lowlifes either. They’re just doing their jobs, like we do on patrol. Batman doesn’t always do what people like, does he?”

“Are you trying to convince me that I’m on the same level as those incompetent fools?” Damian used the tone he reserved for Drake. Grayson’s lips tightened again, and he leaned forward.

“I’m not talking about ability! You can’t—”

“No,” Cain interrupted Grayson’s lecture, pulling him back and sitting between them. “You, can’t leave.”

“Leave?”

Damian wished he could stab her through. Grayson seemed confused for a second, then his face appeared over Cain’s shoulder, no longer angry, his eyes wide.

“Tim warned me… but you’re not… If you wanted to go to Blüdhaven, why didn’t you tell me?”

Damn Drake. He couldn’t be trusted to keep any secrets. “No, I’m going back to my mother.”

“What—why?” Grayson’s voice jumped an octave, and Damian felt the couch shake as he stood up.

“Because I’ve had enough of your weakness and low ability,” Damian gritted his teeth. “Father has decided to make a change, and following him is—”

“Liar,” Cain said mercilessly, unfazed by Damian’s anger.

But Grayson had already been hit by his attack, flinching before stepping around Cain to stand in front of Damian, looking down at him. Damian tried to maintain eye contact but found his neck refusing to cooperate, leaving him staring stiffly at his knees.

“Cass is right, isn’t she?” Grayson inhaled shakily. “You… you’re not trying to go back to the League. Tell me you’re not, Little D.”

He was practically begging. Maybe if Damian disappointed him enough, he’d let him go. In their early days, Damian had said far worse things than returning to the League, and Grayson had once angrily declared he’d shove Damian’s “stubborn assassin head” into a toilet. But now, when those English words were truly necessary, Damian could barely bring himself to say them.

“I’m going back to my mother,” Damian said, the ache gathering near the corners of his eyes. No, he wouldn’t cry like the children they often saved. If he wanted to convince Grayson, he couldn’t. “You have nothing left to teach me! Clearly, my mother’s teachings are correct. I was born to be an assassin, a killer—and a terrorist.”

“Terrorist?!”

*I had hoped you would draw your father closer to us, my son, but it seems his weak side has influenced you.* The voice in his head spoke as Damian struggled to keep his breathing steady.

“What’s going on, Little D?” Grayson crouched down, placing a hand on Damian’s knee, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Who called you a terrorist? Was it Ti—no, Tim wouldn’t… Was it someone at school? Is that why you’ve been refusing to go?”

Grayson had completely missed the point. Damian had repeatedly told them that what he couldn’t stand was the teachers’ shallow rigidity and the so-called classmates’ childish mental retardation. The racial slurs were insignificant in comparison. Some of the League’s actions did fit parts of the internet’s definition of that word, but those weaklings were merely spouting nonsense based on Damian’s appearance. If they knew his true identity, they wouldn’t dare stand upright in his presence. They weren’t worthy of troubling him.

“Someone has to act,” Damian said roughly, wiping his traitorous eyes and cursing his choked voice. “If Drake’s theory is correct, only Mother can tell us where Father is. We have to stop him before he… has to enter the Lazarus Pit.”

“Oh!” Grayson’s face lit up with understanding. “You want to find Bruce through Talia? That’s a plan, but you could’ve told us!”

Damian blinked in surprise. “You agree?”

“I… uh, maybe,” Grayson shamelessly squeezed himself between Damian and the couch arm, forcing Damian to half-sit on his lap. “I mean, Talia’s not like Ra’s, right? She and Bruce have… something complicated—Bruce complicates everything—and I don’t think too highly of her teaching methods, but she cares about you, in her own way.”

Damian had overlooked this. Sometimes he forgot Grayson was a spoiled child (even though everyone else blindly applied that label to Damian), clinging to wishful optimism about parental love. It seemed Drake hadn’t told Grayson everything, or Grayson didn’t believe him—or, most likely, Grayson thought Mother wouldn’t demand anything in return. The last time Grayson had close contact with Mother was when Damian needed a spinal replacement. After the surgery, she let Damian return to Gotham, giving Grayson the wrong impression. He thought they’d just ask a few questions like visiting an informant and leave.

“Have you been in contact with Talia?” Grayson asked hesitantly, trying hard not to imply betrayal. What a fool.

“I know what to do,” Damian replied.

Chapter Text

29.

Barbara could hardly believe she’d been convinced by Dick and Damian. Dick supporting Damian’s initiative to contact the League of Assassins for information about Bruce was enough to make her suspect Dick was under some kind of mind control. After all, Dick’s protective instincts toward the kid rivaled Bruce’s toward Gotham in many ways. As far as Barbara knew, while Dick was generally easygoing, many of Damian’s actions, if done by someone else, wouldn’t have earned nearly as much leniency from him.

But on the other hand, maybe Dick saw this as a way to encourage Damian to reach out to Talia. He had plenty of grievances with Talia, but he never thought cutting Damian off from his birth mother was a good idea. Getting help from Talia could comfort Damian—that sounded like something Dick would think. Plus, Dick had proposed a compelling theory: Tim, after making his deductions (especially after seeing the news of Damian’s fight with Cass), would undoubtedly try to contact Ra’s. Because that’s just the kind of self-sacrificial lunatics they were. Rather than panicking when Tim inevitably went missing, it was better to let Damian try first under their supervision. After all, Damian wasn’t one to give up easily.

“You’re right, Nightwing. I think Red Robin’s doing something similar,” Barbara said, sending Tim a lead about Black Mask’s movements. Information asymmetry was often her advantage. If Tim didn’t want others to find out what he was up to, he’d have to deal with the intel she provided. “You’d better head west along the Red Line and into Burnley. Otherwise, it’ll be awkward if the two groups run into each other.”

“Overestimating themselves, utterly foolish,” Damian grumbled irritably. Like many non-native speakers (or stereotypical upper-class individuals), the kid’s English often came off as overly formal and solemn. Even without his temper, it wasn’t hard to imagine how out of place Damian would be among teenagers who abused abbreviations and pop culture references.

“One more thing, uh, not mission-related,” Dick said, sneaking away from Damian to talk to Barbara after they finalized the plan. “I suspect Damian’s been bullied at school because of his ethnicity and, you know, his lack of social skills. If he lashes out at his classmates, Bruce will bench him from patrols, but I doubt they’ll like him just because he doesn’t kill them.”

“I’ll look into it,” Barbara replied, adding another item to her long to-do list. “Good thing you didn’t send him to the kind of boarding school Bruce went to. From what I’ve heard, that was worse.”

“Yeah, I think Bruce thought so too,” Dick said gloomily. “No rush, though. Damian probably won’t be going back to school anytime soon. Don’t overwork yourself, Babs.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to? Watch it, Boy Wonder.”

“Are we really going to wander around all night waiting for the League to show up?” Dick asked over the comms, interrupting Barbara’s thoughts. “Red Robin’s going to notice only Black Bat’s patrolling our sector soon.”

“Conventional methods are too easily detected by Red Robin or my grandfather. Drawing my mother to me is the most efficient way,” Damian said impatiently. “If Red Robin’s right, she’s already watching—keep up!”

Robin and Nightwing suddenly accelerated, their cameras catching a fleeting glimpse of an assassin. Barbara immediately input the parameters into the tracking software, her heart sinking like a stone. More and more signs pointed to Tim and Jason’s conclusion being correct, which meant Bruce…

Bruce had spent his life battling the limitations of being human, but his fight had always had unbreakable principles and boundaries. Whether it was the Lazarus Pit, magic, or various bizarre healing factors, he’d known about them for years but never considered taking any unnatural shortcuts to overcome his injuries, even if it would help him protect Gotham. A Bruce who dipped himself into a demon’s fountain of youth to kill more efficiently? No, this was someone Barbara didn’t recognize at all. She’d have to rebuild Bruce’s psychological profile from scratch—and fast, before his bullets hit the wrong person.

Robin and Nightwing stopped at an abandoned chemical plant in Burnley’s industrial district, surrounded by at least eight assassins in identical armor, helmets, and masks. Barbara couldn’t identify any of them. The camera shifted again as Robin and Nightwing turned to face the same direction. There, Talia al Ghul emerged from the shadows of scaffolding and ruins, wearing her signature green silk outfit with white trim. The moonlight and streetlights cast a faint glow on her long hair and dark skin, her lips curved in a smile that radiated exotic, dangerous beauty. God, she was exactly Bruce’s type.

“Mother,” Damian said, his voice tight.

“Good evening, Talia,” Dick said, adopting a casual tone.

“My son,” Talia replied, her English carrying a distinct Middle Eastern accent, unlike Damian’s trained neutrality. “I heard you were looking for me—with this circus clown.”

Dick might’ve tried to protest, but he let out a stifled laugh, which only angered Damian.

“Yes,” Damian said loudly. “You’re going to give me information about Father.”

Talia raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”

“If Father’s seeking an alliance with the League, he’ll contact you or Grandfather. Either way, you have the information,” Damian’s voice tinged with anger. “Besides, you wouldn’t be in Gotham without a reason.”

“Perhaps I simply missed you, my son.”

“Then tell me about Father,” Damian snapped. “I remember you teaching me not to waste words or actions, Mother.”

Talia’s smile faded. The camera jolted again as Damian and Dick went on high alert, the surrounding ninjas mirroring their tension. Even through the lens, Talia’s scrutiny was unnerving (though not as much as the Bat-glare). Barbara’s fingers hovered over the keys, ready to call for backup.

“Since you haven’t forgotten my teachings, Damian,” Talia said coldly, “I assume you’re prepared to pay the price?”

“Price?” Dick repeated, his voice jumping an octave. “Your son needs your help to find his father! And you want him to pay a price?”

“Shut up, Grayson!” Damian barked, while Talia said, “You don’t get a say, acrobat.”

“Oh, really?” Barbara sometimes forgot how quick-tempered Dick had been before he became the model big brother. “Excuse me, I’m one of the people who’ve known Bruce the longest! I’ve spent far more time with him than you, and I probably understand your son far better than you do! If you think you can exclude me from this conversation, think again!”

“Is that so?” Talia’s gaze shifted to Dick for the first time. “Bruce’s disciples each have their strengths. Jason has anger enough to drown hell, and Timothy belongs to the dark. I’m curious—”

“Tim doesn’t belong—”

“Enough!” Damian likely kicked Dick’s knee, then stepped forward. “What do you want, Mother?”

Talia didn’t look at him. “Richard must come with me. That is my condition.”

What?

“What?” Damian shouted, furious and bewildered. “Why? He’s of no value to you!”

“That’s not for you to decide, my son,” Talia said, walking toward them as the assassins parted. “His influence on you has gone beyond what you need. This isn’t what I envisioned when I gave you to your father… You’ve grown weak.”

“Weak?” Dick didn’t back down, stepping forward instead. “Is that what you taught him? To make feeling joy harder than ripping out his own heart? Did your relationship with Bruce teach you nothing, Talia?”

“Damian will become the leader of the League of Assassins and the immortal ruler of the world,” Talia said, somehow making the declaration sound less ridiculous than when Damian said it (though it was clear where Damian had learned it). “He is the blood of al Ghul and Batman. The affairs of the al Ghuls are none of your concern.”

“Really? Fun fact: Damian’s my brother. He’s my family too,” Dick’s intensity was almost making Barbara’s hair stand on end. She could hear Damian’s rapid breathing beside him. “He can be whatever he wants, as long as it makes him happy. If you don’t support that, you and your lunatic father can forget about ever seeing Damian again. Don’t think only Bruce can deal with you. I’ve got plenty of ways, just wait and see.”

Talia didn’t show more disdain. Instead, an almost satisfied expression appeared on her face, though Damian didn’t seem to notice.

“Grayson isn’t going with you,” the boy stepped between his mother and Dick. “But I will. I’ll leave with you, continue my training, as long as you help us stop Father.”

“Not a chance, Damian,” Dick said through gritted teeth.

Suddenly, Damian switched to Arabic. Fortunately, Barbara had anticipated this and had translation software ready, which immediately output the conversation in English.

(If you don’t help us, I’ll go to Grandfather. We both know what he wants from me.)

(You’d offer your body to Ra’s al Ghul for the sake of this clown?)

(This is for my father, my family.) Damian paused. (Richard is one of my mentors. Do not insult him in front of me, or I’ll kill you. This is a matter of honor.)

“I don’t care what you’re saying about Ra’s or me, Damian. Listen, I’m not letting you go with her,” Dick said nervously, grabbing Damian’s shoulders and pulling him back. Damian slapped his hand away. “Oracle?”

“Backup’s on the way,” Barbara said as she worked. If Damian and Talia teamed up, Dick wouldn’t be able to stop them.

“You’ve truly changed, Damian,” Talia switched back to English, bending down to reach for Damian’s face. Barbara’s instincts told her the crisis was over. “I’ve always taught you to be a ruler. Sacrifice is a virtue for subjects, never for kings.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dick said firmly. “The only reason Damian shouldn’t have to sacrifice is that he’s a kid!”

Damian didn’t avoid his mother’s touch. Through Dick’s camera, Barbara saw him bite his lip subtly, his emerald eyes flickering with fear and hope as Talia caressed his cheek and hair. If Talia wasn’t heartbroken by this, she was truly made of stone.

“If you’re taking me, you’d better hurry and—”

“Damian’s not going anywhere!”

“Bruce has already gotten what he wanted,” Talia stood up and turned away. “Interestingly, his terms were the same as Damian’s. Something has indeed happened to him.”

“You took Father to the Lazarus Pit?” Damian’s sharp voice felt like it was scraping Barbara’s ribs.

“I gave him some of the Pit’s water, sealed in a cursed vial I carry for emergencies,” Talia replied without turning. “Not enough to resurrect the dead, but enough to save his life or heal his injuries at a critical moment. I let him choose, but I didn’t ask what he chose.”

“How could you?” Damian demanded. “Father’s losing himself! Why did you help him? Don’t you love him for who he is?”

“I was never the one who could make him stray from his path, just as he couldn’t do the same for me,” Talia sounded bitter. “I gave him a chance, and I gave you one too.”

“You sent Damian to him,” Dick suddenly said. “It’s not just Damian who’s changed, is it? You don’t really want—”

The camera view was engulfed in smoke. Dick scooped Damian up and retreated rapidly. Barbara immediately warned everyone to put on respirators. Tim, the closest, would arrive in three minutes. He wasn’t going to like tonight’s news.

Chapter Text

30.

Dick’s muscles quickly grew stiff, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the small amount of anesthetic he’d inhaled or the sheer rage boiling inside him. Damian twisted out of his grip, dropped to the ground, and threw his gas mask aside, launching into a tirade about Dick daring to carry him away. If the kid thought Dick would laugh it off like usual, he was sorely mistaken.

“Shut up, Robin!” Dick ripped off his own mask. “You’re benched!”

Damian visibly flinched, then stomped his foot (*Stop finding him cute, Grayson*) and shouted back even louder, “Why? I didn’t do anything wrong! I followed the plan!”

“Leaving with her wasn’t part of the plan!” Dick glared at the green domino mask. “You planned this from the start, didn’t you? Trading yourself for intel on Bruce! That’s why you tried to sneak off!”

“It was a necessary price—”

“A necessary price?” Damn, is this genetic? “Nothing is worth trading you for! What were you thinking? Did you really think I’d just let her take you?”

“I’d have come back!” Damian clearly felt no remorse—if anything, he looked insulted. “It would’ve been temporary! The most important thing right now is—”

“Don’t tell me what’s important! You’re not Batman, kid!”

“Dick!” Barbara’s voice carried a warning tone over the comms. She always used that tone when she thought someone was about to do something they’d regret—and she was always right. Seeing Damian’s lips press into a thin line, Dick knew he’d messed up. Bruce used to do the same thing when Dick pushed too far—and that thought didn’t help him calm down.

“NEITHER ARE YOU!” The words hit Dick like a Batarang, the resentment behind them freezing him in place.

“I didn’t need rescuing! You should’ve gone after my mother! It’s because you didn’t trust me that they got away!” Damian continued his tirade. “We were supposed to use her to find Father! You ruined the plan! You’re not fit to be Batman!”

“Hey, you two!” Barbara raised her voice, but Dick barely felt sorry for her anymore.

“Oh, really? That’s great!” Dick shouted back. “Because becoming Batman was the worst decision of my life! Especially being YOUR Batman!”

Damian gasped. Dick heard Tim arrive nearby, deliberately choosing a neutral landing spot to avoid getting dragged into their fight.

“What, you’re fighting already?” Tim said, not particularly kindly. “I haven’t even—whoa!”

They both flipped to avoid a barrage of Batarangs. Damian had likely emptied his belt, throwing smoke bombs and flashbangs. Barbara sternly ordered Dick not to chase, saying she’d keep an eye on Damian, then cut the comms.

“Guess what? This is the second smoke bomb I’ve eaten today,” Tim coughed, standing up and looking in the direction Damian had fled. “Want to explain what just happened?”

“B got Lazarus Pit water,” Dick ran a hand through his hair, his fists itching to hit something. “From Talia. She said she doesn’t know where he went after or if he used it.”

“Oh.” Tim paused for half a beat. “Well, at least that means as of their parting, he hadn’t used it.”

“Maybe he just didn’t want to use it in front of her.”

“Or he has another plan—I’d bet my allowance on plastic surgery,” Tim shrugged, trying to sound casual, but his voice and posture gave him away. “Batman had a whole contingency for shedding Bruce Wayne, remember? He planned how to kill Wayne, then change his face and completely sever the identities. Full facial reconstruction takes a long recovery—unless you have magic.”

In other words, the next time they saw Bruce, it might be with a completely unfamiliar face. Dick didn’t even know what his eyes looked like now. Dick used to be the person who knew Bruce best in the world—or so he thought. But Bruce had crossed a line Dick believed unbreakable, shattering principles he’d watched Bruce uphold for years, no matter the pain. Soon, Dick might pass Bruce on the street and not recognize him. It was a scenario Dick couldn’t fathom.

“We’ll talk about the rest later. Tonight’s a mess,” Tim changed the subject as casually as if they were discussing where to grab breakfast. “Batman should make an appearance at Aparo Park next. One of my informants said—”

“There is no Batman.”

“I’ll go after Robin,” Tim seemed to take his words as a figure of speech. “I know I don’t get along with him well, but just now—”

“I’m not Batman,” Dick emphasized. “Batman doesn’t exist anymore—at least, not as me.”

This declaration brought him a sense of relief as if his insides had been hollowed out—he had never wanted to be Batman. Ever since his time as Robin, he had been certain that he didn't want to be a hero like Bruce, sacrificing everything for Gotham. True, when Bruce returned, he had almost gotten used to the cape, even a bit reluctant to part with it, but that was more because he had already invested so much in it, not because it had become less burdensome. He could help Bruce share the load, but going back to carrying the weight of this city alone? No, thank you.

"Damian didn't mean it, and I know you didn't either," Tim said cautiously after a moment of silence. "You taught me—hell, maybe you taught all of us—not to take things said in anger too seriously, remember? And you're older than him, you're supposed to be the mature one. You and Damian, you're each other's Batman and Robin, even if I'm not too keen on admitting it."

*You're MY Batman.*

Tim didn't know that after Bruce's return, Damian had indeed said this to him, avoiding everyone else. The kid was so stiff and clumsy when it came to expressing his feelings that Dick couldn't help but hug him—yet the realization that he had just used these words to hurt Damian stabbed at Dick's heart like a dagger. Damian was just starting to trust his other family members and accept a lifestyle different from the League of Assassins. He was the last person in the world Dick should let down.

Moreover, that kid was probably the only person Dick could still let down.

"I'll apologize to Damian, but I mean it, I'm never wearing that suit again," Dick said as the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble, on the verge of splitting open, with the roaring sound surging into his ears from the horizon. "What did you call it after B disappeared last time, the CAPE CONTEST? As if it was some prize I had won, some damn highest honor, as if it wasn't the most fucking awful period of my life! The city I protected turned into ruins, one of my family members died, and the rest of you were—"

"Do you want to see that happen again?" Tim shouted at Dick, which was much better than his usual businesslike concession. "You're the best choice! Everyone recognizes you as Batman—"

"I thought I was doing what Bruce would do!"

"You were not!" Tim's staff scraped against the roof, producing a sharp sound. "Don't take it out on me! I kept telling you Bruce was alive, but you thought I was crazy! Just like tonight, you'd rather believe that little assassin than me! Bruce never appointed him as Robin!"

"Appointed? The glorious little Batman assistant, played by the world's cutest little birdy?" Ha, he was almost winning the title of Brother of the Year. "Robin's not a job, it's the name my mother gave me! And guess what, I was the only one who didn't have a say in who should get it! Sorry, Timmy, I'm sorry Damian replaced you, even though you seem to have forgotten that you all replaced me! I never asked to be the big brother of a bunch of unbearable little brats!"

Tim raised his staff, and Dick was almost eagerly reaching for escrima stick. Whatever, he needed a fight—

Another roar, clear enough for Dick to be sure it wasn't just the blood pulsing in his ears. They both stopped and reached for their communicators. GOTHAM FIRST.

"Batgirl and Batwoman need backup, I'm sending you the coordinates," Oracle's emotionless voice was strangely calming. "Red Hood still refuses to make contact, but Crime Alley is temporarily secure. Robin and Black Bat are containing Arkham. Ready for a busy tonight."

31.

Even though he already knew the outcome, Jason still turned over the last body to inspect it. Like the other two, it had two shots to the chest and one to the head, the standard Mozambique drill, executed with a bland professionalism that bordered on boredom. The murder weapon was discarded beside the body, free of fingerprints, and naturally, there was no bat emblem etched onto the bullet casings, but Jason knew exactly who was responsible. It was clear that the shot in the footage had been a performance; the former Batman seemed to have completely abandoned his old, highly theatrical style.

As expected, the Joker's gang became Bruce's first target to eliminate amid the chaos. The government was a game for the elite, and the underworld order in Gotham was largely maintained by gangs. Aside from the annoying so-called Bat-discipline, a significant reason Jason had reduced (definitely not abandoned) killing was that he realized that while he was saving some people by taking out each drug dealer and pimp, he wasn't necessarily bringing more safety to the streets; instead, he often created new chaos and shootouts. Plus, vigilantism was more expensive than he had imagined (another piece of knowledge that billionaires won't specifically teach you), and robbery wasn't a long-term solution. In the end, he had to take over some of the gang's operations and keep them within a range he could tolerate. Over the past few years, some of the people he had contacted trusted the Red Hood more because he was closer to them and willing to seek revenge on their behalf; while others only approached Batman because they could trust him to help, rather than shoot, their wayward family and friends.

The Joker's gang could be said to be the main force in this rotten city that contributed the least to order and caused the most destruction. Moreover, it couldn't be considered a tightly organized or structured group. The only thing helped it stay afloat was its unpredictability and lack of moral from top to bottom. In short, this was the place in Gotham with the highest density of crazies outside of Arkham. If you provoked the Joker, maybe you'd get a kiss that reeked of cheap makeup, or maybe you'd sleep peacefully one night and wake up to find a jar in front of you containing your pregnant wife's fetus and brain.

—No one wanted to bet on the latter, unless they had no attachments and were as crazy as the Joker.

Aside from considerations of cost-effectiveness, perhaps Bruce's choice also involved personal grudges, but Jason wouldn't allow himself to think that. When served as the temporary Batman, he found that Bruce hadn't deleted anything from the Bat-computer. There was even a report, completely blank except for the basic information, which Bruce was supposed to fill out after completing his routine patrol that night. All signs indicated that Bruce's first shot was entirely spontaneous, something even Bruce himself hadn't known about a few hours before it happened.

After ruling out the possibility that Bruce was being controlled, Jason almost wished it was punishment or revenge, but like the cliché that old fogeys use to lecture teenagers—not everything is about you. Bruce had stepped over Jason's body to enter the next stage of his life, and now he had crossed over the Joker's body as well. The world won't stop and wait for you to heal your wounds and finish throwing your tantrums. If you don't keep up, it will leave you behind.

"Fuck you," Jason clenched his fist above the body. "Try showing up."

Chapter Text

32.

Tim had too many messes on his hands, and he couldn’t even tell which one was worse.

Damian had thrown an epic PR disaster right in his face, and the custody of the youngest Wayne had suddenly become a hotter topic than the company’s ownership. If it weren’t for his plans to contact Ra’s, Tim would’ve raced back to the manor to shove the demon brat back to hell (on the bright side, maybe Ra’s’ conditions could free him from the burden of dealing with Damian for the rest of his life). But Damian had beaten him to contacting the League of Assassins. God knows, if Tim’s blood pressure had skyrocketed when Stephanie shoved the YouTube video of Damian slashing at Cass in his face, then by the time Barbara urgently called him to back up Nightwing and Robin and explained what they were doing, his aorta had probably burst. The only reason he wasn’t bleeding out was his elevated platelet count after losing his spleen.

In short, Tim’s to-do list included calls to at least three child welfare organizations. If the court allowed a mandatory physical examination, letting Damian go with Talia tonight might’ve been the better choice—imagine Damian fighting his way out, or them explaining to the medical staff, “This scar is from when Damian was shot, and we gave him a new spine. He’s perfectly healthy now.”

This was also why Tim believed Bruce planned to kill himself before diving into the Lazarus Pit. After Bruce Wayne’s death, inheritance and custody transfers could proceed normally through legal channels. Bruce had already prepared flawless wills, and Dick, now a billionaire, could easily wrest custody of Damian from Talia or other forces, even if it meant more attention and procedures. But with Bruce alive, high-profile as a murder suspect on the run, the troubles were endless, crashing against their fractured family like waves—though this was practically the norm. How pathetic.

Tim wasn’t the first to envy Jason. Maybe Damian got the most leniency, but his age meant he was always under tight supervision, while Jason could disappear whenever he wanted. No one expected Jason to shoulder family responsibilities; as long as he didn’t go on a killing spree or cause too much destruction (or at least not too severe), he received unanimous tolerance and praise. And Tim? He was like a tiny insect caught in a web of multiple lives. One misstep, and the spiders of blame would pounce and devour him.

“The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” Conner said solemnly, even scratching the back of his head. “Does that fit here? I think it does. Jason became a jerk after coming back to life, and Damian’s been one from the start—maybe he’ll be slightly less of a jerk later. Now you’re stuck in the middle seat forever.”

“Grammatically, you used it correctly, and it makes you sound like an irredeemable hick, which fits even better,” Tim retorted at the time. Complaining about family issues with Conner felt great. After losing Conner and Bart, he and Cassie could barely talk for a few minutes without touching the gaping holes in their lives.

Damian hadn’t taken his spot in the Teen Titans, which was even better, though admitting it made him seem petty. Cassie had also refused to believe him after Bruce’s disappearance, secretly contacting Dick instead, thinking Tim had mental issues. But after they kicked out Damian and welcomed him back, Tim decided to forgive that. After all, if he held grudges every time, he’d have no one left.

For a moment, swinging over Gotham, Tim’s breathing was so smooth. His forced independence hadn’t been pleasant, but now, his friends and family were all back (even if their relationships were far from perfect), his day and night work had earned praise, and there was Stephanie, still wearing the same perfume, admitting mistakes and forgiving herself in ways Tim could never manage. Tim couldn’t help but kiss her.

Let it go on like this, Tim secretly hoped. Maybe one day he could fully let go of Jason trying to murder him, confess to Jason that the little boy who idolized the second Robin was still alive, or casually ask Dick over dinner, “What were you doing in Gotham back then?” or tell Stephanie they had no more secrets, only a future… He knew it was impossible. They’d never had enough peace to heal their wounds. Managing a fragile, fleeting balance amidst violence, exhaustion, and pain, capturing a few moments, was already a stroke of luck.

But Tim hadn’t expected change to come like this.

And now Dick hates me, probably thinks I hate him too. I might just die like this, Tim thought. It’s a bit like history repeating itself, huh? Tim shouldn’t have made such a rookie mistake: picking up a child curled up next to a bomb about to explode, taking the blast to his back, only for the kid to zap him in the jaw with a stun gun. Bruce had emphasized at least twenty thousand that once involved in a gang war, you had to be equally wary of all sides, no matter how weak one seemed.

“…one of them, also worth something.” one of the four men stepping over rubble to Tim’s side said. It took Tim a few seconds to barely make out their voices. “But do you think if we shoot him in the leg, that bat bitch will show up?”

So Kate’s fine and has gone to ground. Tim was momentarily grateful his partner tonight was her. Kate had the soldier’s cold determination to do whatever it took for the mission. If it were Stephanie, he couldn’t expect her not to walk right into the trap.

“I heard these two aren’t close,” the second man said, kicking Tim’s ribs.

“Who gives a damn? Let’s try it,” the third man said, racking his gun. Tim managed to twitch, but his body still refused to respond. His nose and mouth were full of fluid.

It's okay, they don't plan to kill him for now. Enduring weeks of Stephanie's fury, Damian's ridicule, and Dick's awkward conversation attempts while tied to a bed by Alfred is slightly preferable to death. Tim's sense of self-worth isn't so low that he thinks his death wouldn't hurt the rest of his family (at least, some of them).

He didn't hear a gunshot or the whoosh of a batarang. Instead, there was a sudden outburst of curses and screams, followed by someone collapsing near Tim's left shoulder. Silencer. Tim couldn't even tell if he preferred this to be a rescue or another gang coming to fight over the spoils. As a second body fell, a hot muzzle pressed harshly against Tim's jaw. Then, a hand roughly yanked him up, slamming his back into the man's knee, with the muzzle sliding across his exposed skin.

"Don't move!" the guy screamed in his ear with an Upper East Side accent, as a third body fell. "I'll shoot! Shoot this damn bird! Who the hell are you? I swear to--"

That is, the answer leaned more towards rescuers—armed rescuers unknown to the local gang. As he made this judgment, Tim break free by joint techniques, elbowing the guy's temple. The villain's gun went off, the bullet grazing past Tim's nose and causing a sharp pain between his ears. Tim's movements were still sluggish, but more than enough to take down such a pushover. Coughing to clear his airways, he casually disassembled the gun and crouched in front of the only gang member who seemed to be still alive. It wasn't hard to determine the gunman's hiding place based on the trajectory and the surroundings. But once Tim left, this stupid henchman who tried to kidnap Red Robin might be killed immediately. Damn it, Tim almost wished he hadn't saved him.

Hesitating any longer and the gunman would disappear without a trace. Tim was in a dilemma when he saw a red shadow flash by, and Batwoman flushed the gunman out of his cover. He was wearing all-black combat gear and a gas mask, but Tim's heart raced: with out a doubt, build, moves, and action details all proved it was Bruce.

"There's... there's a kid!" Tim shouted, or at least he thought he did; he couldn't hear himself. "They're using a kid!"

Batwoman successfully knocked Bruce's gun out of his hand, but took a heavy punch to her left cheek. It would take a while for them to decide the winner. Tim ran off, searching the surrounding ruins as quickly as possible. The kid was at most seven years old, waiting by the soon-to-explode bomb as these scum had demanded... He must have dropped that kid after being electrocuted... Bruce wouldn't, absolutely wouldn't...

"No!" Kate shouted, desperately throwing herself at a grenade. Before Tim's brain could react, his legs were already running in the same direction as her. There was a small body behind the cover Bruce had used a minute ago. Tim grabbed the kid by the back of neck, while Kate wrapped her arms around him, struggling to roll with him. Tim landed on all fours, covering the kid as much as possible, while Kate's cape covered all three of them—

No explosion.

Bruce had vanished, as expected. Tim struggled under Kate's watchful eye, hastily pulling off his glove, narrowly avoiding triggering the self-defense anesthetic spray. The child lay still with eyes closed. Like an amateur, Tim first touched the boy's face; it was warm, but such a short interval between two touches meant the body temperature proved nothing. It took Tim several seconds to make sense of his jumbled senses and confirm the child's pulse, fluttering like a bird's wings, and then the rise and fall of his chest. The kid was alive, with no visible injuries except for a few scrapes.

"Anesthetic dart," Batwoman indicated the red dot on the child's neck. "Probably to keep him still. Not his usual style, is it?"

Tim nodded, unable to speak. Bruce wouldn't handle a child victim so roughly. Contrary to the sinister image in criminals' eyes, he always kept candies or something else in his belt to calm children down. In fact, Batman was better at dealing with toddlers than anyone Tim had ever met—including Superman.

As Tim laid the child flat on the ground for a body scan, Kate suddenly asked, "Did you really think that grenade was going to explode just now?"

"No."

For someone who had been anesthetized, the child's vital signs were normal. Still, they'd better take him to the hospital, notify the police and CPS, and ensure in their own way that the child would never return to the person who left him beside a bomb.

"But if you knew the grenade wasn't going to explode, he should have been your top priority because the child was in no danger."

"Aren't you the same?" Tim retorted. "If you believed Bruce wouldn't shoot you in the back, why did you stop the grenade?"

"I didn't believe he wouldn't shoot," Batwoman said bluntly. "I just chose to protect the child."

Tim fell silent. Yes, this was the choice they had to make every night: civilians — Robin — other adult vigilantes — Batman. The hierarchy of life that Bruce had ingrained in his bones.

“The question is, has he become someone in your eyes who would throw a grenade at a child to escape?” Kate stared at Tim through the white lenses of her cowl. They both heard the sirens. “I saw your face. Do you think Bruce would hurt this kid?”

At this moment, with the unexploded grenade lying ten feet away, answering “yes” would be absurd, but lying was pointless. That was Bruce! Since when had Tim started seeing Bruce as someone as unprincipled as the Joker? When Bruce killed the Joker? When Cass got hurt? When Jason and Damian said those things? Or just now, when Bruce shot several gang members in front of him?

*If I kill the Joker, I’ll become no different from him.* Tim had always taken that as a metaphor. Legally, every superhero was a criminal; the line between them and villains was never clear. That’s why setting boundaries was so important—they never treated lives as carelessly as the Joker. But what if Bruce meant it literally? Maybe the thought had been rooted in his mind for so long that Tim hadn’t even realized it.

“Yes, he should be fine. The comms might’ve been damaged. There was an explosion here earlier…”

Batwoman didn’t wait long for his answer. While reporting the situation into her comms, she picked up the child and went to deal with the police. Tim belatedly realized the buzzing in his ears wasn’t just tinnitus. The gang member who’d held him twitched, and Tim threw an electric Batarang. His suit was speckled with blood, and Tim turned his back on the bodies, fiddling with his comms.

“Red Robin!” Dick’s voice burst into his ears. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, just rattled. I can handle another fight or two,” Tim squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to cry like a kid. “I… I’m safe. It got dicey for a moment.”

The channel went quiet. “Was it…?”

“Yeah. I lost him, but he should be within a mile of me.”

Dick’s voice grew softer. “He…?”

“Three, at least.”

“Red Hood says someone’s systematically cleaning up the remnants of the Joker gang. Maybe we can confirm if it’s the same person,” Barbara chimed in.

“I… didn’t get a chance to inspect closely. Sorry,” Tim gripped his grapple gun. “The police are here. Batwoman’s handling them. I’m heading out.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see the autopsy report later,” Barbara said calmly, as if she didn’t know Tim was making excuses for not examining the bodies Bruce had left. In that moment, Tim loved her so much. “Can you get to Arkham ASAP? The south exit’s about to collapse.”

“Five minutes!”

For the next few hours, he subdued Mr. Freeze, helped Barbara override Arkham’s security systems, successfully isolated the island, and waited until order was restored inside. Cass and Damian recaptured all the escaped patients. At dawn, after the mission debrief and intel exchange, Tim sat exhausted on the roof of Martha Children’s Hospital, eavesdropping on doctors and Officer Montoya. The child’s father was one of the Rogues Batwoman had taken down, now arrested. His mother, a former prostitute, was also an addict. They couldn’t pay for drugs, so the Rogues took their child as collateral.

“Sounds like his dad cares enough to follow police instructions, as long as they promise to protect him,” Tim said as Kate sat beside him. “Though the guy couldn’t stop using drugs even with a baby.”

“When you make one bad decision, more follow,” Kate handed him a spicy hot dog. The greasy, pungent smell assaulted Tim’s nose. He wanted to take a big bite, but Alfred would ground him, and he wouldn’t get a single cup of coffee during that time.

Tim declined, pulling out a chocolate-flavored protein bar and unwrapping it.

“You’re getting a bit too skinny, if you ask me.”

“Maybe. I lost a spleen recently.”

Kate nodded knowingly and dug into her double hot dog. Tim tried not to drool.

“If I was too harsh earlier, I’m sorry,” Kate said. “I don’t have much faith in humanity, but I know you’re different. Bruce… used to be different.”

“It’s fine. I…” The wrapper crinkled in Tim’s fingers. “I don’t think he wanted to blow up the kid. Maybe the grenade would’ve exploded, but he knew our capabilities. He knew we wouldn’t let the kid get hurt. He just needed to escape… that’s all. The kid’s fine.”

“But you could’ve been seriously injured. Do you think he didn’t care about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“He saved you,” Kate’s voice softened, a rare hint of concern breaking through Batwoman’s usual stern tone. “I know you don’t agree with his recent methods, but he shot to save you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe those guys were already on his list, and it was just convenient,” Tim let out a bitter laugh. Every part of him ached, and his voice wavered. “They used a kid as bait. That definitely meets Bruce’s standards.”

“You mean your standards,” Kate pointed out. “‘If I ever start killing, I’d definitely kill them.’ That’s your logic, isn’t it?”

Was it? Then again, he could only speculate about Bruce’s next targets based on his own standards. They dealt with murderers every day. He’d touched enough corpses to form an army, seen countless good people fall. So of course, Tim had thought about it—more than once. He was sure they all had: If I break, if I cross that line…

“What are you saying? That we don’t really know Bruce’s standards?”

“I’m saying you might be thinking too pessimistically,” Kate lifted her cup and took a few hearty gulps of soda. “God, you’re all just like Bruce. ‘I have to do things this way. If I change, the world will end.’ In reality, it won’t.”

The protein bar tasted like ash in Tim’s mouth. He gazed at the overcast horizon, where thick clouds blocked any sign of sunrise—a common sight in Gotham.

“Maybe,” Tim said silently. “Maybe what I’m more afraid of is this—the strongest person I know is gone. Not because he died upholding his beliefs, but because he overturned them himself, negated everything we built together, destroyed what was once most precious to us… and the world just keeps going.”

Chapter Text

33.

Stephanie stood behind Dick and let out a sigh so heavy it felt like her chest had collapsed.

Dick flinched.

Not that she wasn’t being considerate—she really understood. If you’d managed to upset two brothers in one night and then heard your fugitive dad had killed again, you’d probably be crouching on a gargoyle—or somewhere slightly more normal—brooding and avoiding going home too.

But for Bat-Gods' sake, she had two classes today!

“Take the Batmobile back, Batgirl. Alfred must’ve prepared breakfast for you,” Dick turned around, offering two tempting conditions. “I need some time.”

“First, Professor Ridgeway has hinted that if I don’t read the pre-class materials before showing up again, he’ll kick me. And my materials aren’t digitized, nor are they on me,” Stephanie said regretfully. “Second, the trip from the manor to school is long enough for me to nap twice, and there’s no parking space for Batmobile near my apartment.”

“We’ll arrange a driver to take you—”

“Through the open manor gates and the wall of reporters? No, thanks,” Stephanie placed a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “S
Just save your compensatory big brother quota.”

Her joke fell flat. Dick couldn’t even muster a forced smile, his entire body seeming to slump.

“Am I really that bad?” He sat down on the gargoyle, his legs dangling dangerously, the curve of his back brushing Stephanie’s calf. “Even basic concern from me just because Tim and Damian are mad at me?”

“Of course not!” Stephanie hopped onto the adjacent gargoyle to face Dick. “God, I was just trying to lighten the mood! And, uh, assess my boyfriend’s melancholy level or something. You’ve always been an amazing big brother—everyone knows that! Seriously, I think you and Tim share a problem: people always expect you to do better, and you’ve gotten used to accepting those unfair standards.”

“I set unfair standards for Tim. I gave Robin to Damian because it was the only thing I could use to keep him here. The only reason he stayed in Gotham was Bruce, and we all thought we’d lost Bruce,” Dick said bitterly. “I didn’t ask Tim because I assumed he’d agree. I didn’t realize it hurt him so much… but did I really not know? How did I feel when Bruce made Jason Robin without asking me? I just expected Tim to accept my decision, to be on the same page. When he didn’t meet my expectations, I pushed him aside.”

It was awful. Just awful. This was what Stephanie hated most about this family: they’d engage in a million dollars’ worth of self-flagellation but wouldn’t fight for even a penny’s worth of mutual understanding—while throwing every coin they’d ever earn into bottomless pits like saving Gotham. She tried to say something reasonable, but her brain had basically shut down. Her empty stomach and low blood sugar were fighting for attention.

“You’ve always been Tim’s brother—basically his only brother, since it’s hard to associate the word with Jason. Let’s just say, whenever he needs to do something brotherly, like taking care of someone, and he asks himself, ‘What would Dick do?’ he gets full marks,” Stephanie shrugged as Dick looked at her in surprise. “Don’t tell him I told you. I won’t say you’ve never let him down, but I guess that’s just… part of life? Our parents aren’t perfect, our siblings aren’t perfect, our friends aren’t perfect, and yet they’re still our parents, siblings, or friends. You’re all still here, watching each other’s backs every night, worrying about each other. I really don’t think you need to be so pessimistic.”

“What about you?” Dick suddenly asked. “As someone who cares about and loves Tim, do you think having a brother like me is good for him?”

What kind of question was that? “Uh, you sound like you’re asking for permission to marry Tim.”

Dick laughed. “So, would you allow poor little Timmy to marry me?”

“You should ask Tim,” Stephanie replied firmly. “Tim often makes the worst decisions for himself, but his judgment is usually right. I haven’t been involved much in your stuff, but if he thinks you’re a good brother, you must be.”

Dick shook his head, the dim morning light casting an unhealthy pallor over his skin, accentuating the toll of sleepless nights and stress. Stephanie didn’t need him to say it—the problem wasn’t whether Tim thought Dick was a good brother, but whether Tim now believed Dick was only Damian’s good brother. Some universal multi-child family drama, perhaps.

“I’m scared for Tim. After that year, after he worked with the League of Assassins, he’s become more like Bruce in some ways. And now Bruce…” Dick choked, his fingers digging into the gargoyle’s eyes. “He’s been hurt. He needs rest. I want to stop him from going down that path. He won’t let me be there when he deals with Ra’s al Ghul, and he won’t tell me what terms he’s agreed to. I want to at least keep things under control—God, I sound just like Bruce.”

“Don’t you? He really didn’t set a great example.”

Stephanie shivered in the cold wind. The suit’s temperature regulation had its limits, and in Gotham’s near-winter stillness, it was barely better than nothing. Seeing this, Dick finally suggested they get into the Batmobile. Stephanie shoved him into the passenger seat—fighting for control of the Batmobile was part of every Robin’s instincts.

“I know you all probably think I’m a bit heartless or whatever, not as invested as you are. But you know what? I had a chance to kill Black Mask, but I didn’t pull the trigger because I didn’t want to betray what Bruce taught me… It almost became the last thing I did. I really ‘died’ once for that reason, and I guess that’s why he finally acknowledged me as one of the Robins,” Stephanie fiddled with the dashboard, ignoring Dick’s reaction. “Before that, no one thought I deserved to be a superhero—not even my best friend or boyfriend, let alone Bruce. You know the energy he has. Just standing in front of him makes you desperate for his approval—”

“You have all of our approval,” Dick said earnestly. “You’re an amazing superhero, whether as Spoiler or Batgirl. We all underestimated you.”

“Damn right, you bunch of idiots!” Stephanie waved her fist, hoping her tone sounded more cheerful and triumphant. She didn’t need that kind of validation anymore—at least not the way she used to, putting proving herself before learning to throw Batarangs or fight. But hearing it still felt like… being struck. Part of Stephanie Brown had died that night. The gang war wasn’t some trivial thing where she disobeyed orders, jumped in, messed up, and got scolded by Batman. Her courage and pride were like ants before the awakened beast of Gotham. She saw the streets burning, people suffering the consequences of her recklessness. With those lessons, she returned to Gotham and earned what that young girl had been willing to die for.

“I had to keep going. I had to face my mistakes. I couldn’t change what had already happened, but I could make sure I saved more people than I hurt,” Stephanie wasn’t entirely unsympathetic to Jason—thinking of Black Mask still living freely somewhere in the city made a corner of her tremble. “You see, sometimes it’s like that. You hurt people, and doing good things for them won’t completely erase that hurt, but what you do still matters. At least it’s more meaningful than running away.”

Dick’s mouth hung open for a good while without a sound. Ha, who’d have thought a blonde in a purple suit could be a philosopher?

“I get it,” came the Grayson-brand heartfelt moment. “Stephanie, thank—”

Stephanie punched a button, laughing as Dick was ejected from the Batmobile with a startled scream.

34.

“It’s fine,” Cain pinched the back of Damian’s neck. Damian clicked his tongue impatiently. If he weren’t busy, he’d have swatted that restless hand away.

“Morning, Alfred, Cass,” Drake slid off his motorcycle and walked over slowly, his voice hoarse and tired. “Am I seeing things, or is Damian actually—oh, this…”

“Master Damian volunteered to suture Miss Cassandra’s wound,” Pennyworth said cheerfully. “What would you like to drink, Master Timothy? Besides coffee, of course.”

Damian pulled the thread through Cain’s skin, waiting for Drake’s sarcastic remark. Cain pinched his neck again, raising her left hand to make the stupid “OK” gesture at Drake. When she’d grabbed Man-Bat’s leg and slammed him into the ground, the cut on her palm had reopened. It was entirely her own fault—even with a sprained ankle, Damian could’ve easily dealt with that cheap knockoff using his grapple gun. Cain’s unnecessary actions weren’t Damian’s responsibility, but he was willing to admit some fault for her injury. It was only fair that he handled it.

“Whatever, uh, really no coffee?” Drake said distractedly, peeking at Damian’s progress. “Wow, your skills are better than I expected.”

“Cut the act, Drake!” Damian growled, and Drake froze.

“No need for such hostility. You’re not the only one who fought with big brother tonight.”

When Damian finished the sutures and turned around, Drake was struggling to pull his suit off, his head completely tangled in the fabric. Pennyworth helped him, revealing bruises all over his body. This level of injury was routine for them. Damian picked up a cotton ball and pressed it against Cain’s hand for further disinfection.

“At least Dick didn’t try to punch you. You’re still doing better than me. Feeling better now?” Drake sneered, earning a reproachful look from Pennyworth.

While Pennyworth insisted Drake take the necessary medication and vitamins for his asplenic condition, he also supervised Cain as she immobilized Damian’s ankle. Damian fidgeted impatiently. Drake didn’t explain the reason for his fight with Grayson or accuse Grayson of unilaterally supporting Damian’s plan, so their argument must’ve been about issues between him and Grayson. It was obvious—Drake had always resented Grayson choosing Damian as Robin. Now that both he and Damian were planning to contact the League of Assassins, Grayson had once again decided to support Damian, pushing Drake’s jealousy over the edge.

Stupid. Damian limped into the shower first, shedding the rest of his gear along the way. Drake had clearly heard Grayson say he regretted, that he didn’t want to be Damian’s Batman anymore. Didn’t that mean Grayson had always thought Drake was the better Robin? Logically, Damian knew those words were largely due to Grayson’s irrational concern for his safety, but that didn’t mean they contradicted Grayson’s true feelings. Instead of seizing the opportunity to reclaim the Robin mantle, Drake had lashed out at Grayson. So stupid.

The sound of the Batmobile passing through the waterfall echoed. Damian didn’t want to face Grayson yet and left the Cave as quickly as possible. Alfred the cat was curled up in the chair closest to the fireplace in the study, lazily meowing at Damian as he picked him up and carried him to the bedroom. Titus enthusiastically bounded down the hallway, but Damian ordered him to sit and crouched to check the progress of his ear infection with one hand. All day, Damian had prepared himself for the possibility of not returning to Wayne Manor anytime soon. He knew he could entrust the animals to the people in the house. But now, stroking Alfred and Titus’s fur, feeling their warmth, all the soft, weak impulses associated with the concept of “home” washed over Damian. He was no longer the son his mother had envisioned, and he was still far from meeting Grayson’s (and Father’s past) standards.

“How’s Titus? I heard he’s been a bit under the weather.”

Damian buried his face in the Great Dane’s fur, adjusting his expression before turning around. Drake’s return to the manor either meant he had important intel or wanted to reconcile with Grayson in person. Either way, he shouldn’t have come upstairs so quickly.

“A Grayson-style super hug solves a lot of problems, you know. It’s practically cheating,” Drake had changed into a shirt and pants, shrugging awkwardly under Damian’s gaze. “We agreed to save the serious, grown-up conversation for when we’re less exhausted. For now, we’re just glad everyone’s alive.”

True. In Drake’s current state, it wouldn’t be surprising if he passed out mid-conversation.

“I’ll handle the shareholder meeting in two hours.”

“No way!” Drake immediately objected. “You just—I just need to lie down for a bit. I’ve been through worse.”

“You have medical orders not to overexert yourself,” Damian straightened up, speaking seriously. “When you’re not sick, you’re somewhat useful.”

Drake blinked stupidly, his sluggish reaction further proof he needed sleep.

“Are you… worried about me?”

“I’m concerned about my father’s legacy and his company, which will one day belong to me,” Damian replied calmly. “As the interim manager, you should take better care of yourself and have the obligation to obey the future leader. My conflict with Cain can’t be an excuse for their inability to perform their duties.”

A hint of a smirk flashed across Drake’s face, but he seemed to decide against wasting energy arguing with Damian. Damian didn’t like it, but dealing with this version of Drake had its advantages compared to their usual confrontations.

“Fine, I’ll say bedtime prayers for the shareholders.”

“Grayson claims he’s grounding me. For the record, I haven’t accepted this unjust punishment,” Damian took a deep breath, swallowing the bitterness in his throat. “But on the other hand, with you working with Grayson—”

“Wait, you’re still on about shoving me back into the Robin suit?”

“Since Batman is already on a rotation system, I see no reason Robin can’t be too,” Damian’s hand clenched into a fist under Alfred the cat’s belly. The cat lay heavily on his arm while Titus kept bumping his leg.

“Where are you planning to go this time?” Drake was fully on guard now. “You’re still mad at Dick, so it’s not Blüdhaven… Don’t tell me you’re actually planning to go with Talia! You can’t just—because Dick said some stupid things—”

“I’m not a traitor!” Damian snapped, causing Alfred the cat to meow in protest and jump down. “Even if I temporarily compromise with Mother to find Father, I’ll come back! Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll give up my position!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” Drake crossed his arms. “But what’s with this shared Robin idea? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly become generous.”

“It’s just a substitute for when I’m unavailable,” Damian muttered. How had he thought he could have a meaningful conversation with Drake in such a short time? “It doesn’t matter if you refuse. You’re not a great choice anyway.”

Damian whistled, signaling Titus to follow him back to the room. The dog’s tail wagged furiously. Alfred the cat soon joined, claiming his usual spot on the pillow, while Titus lay at the foot of the bed, ready to sprawl across Damian’s legs once he lay down. Grayson had confiscated the katana, so Damian pulled a dagger from under the bed and tucked it into the pillowcase as a substitute.

A knock came at the door. Damian moved Alfred the cat to hide any signs of the pillow’s contents, then heard Drake’s uncertain voice calling his name. He hesitated before opening the door.

“Uh, there might be some—a lot of misunderstandings between us. Anyway…” Drake scratched his head, his mannerisms eerily similar to Grayson’s. “Yeah, being Robin was really important to me, but you’re more important. You’re my brother, the only Robin right now. You’ve earned the position.”

If Drake dared to leak Damian’s next move to anyone, Damian would peel him.

Chapter Text

35.

Not wanting to see the mournful faces of others is one thing, but intelligence is another. Jason isn't foolish enough to let himself fall out of touch with the latest Gotham at this critical juncture. Barbara has already obtained the police's preliminary CSI report. The guns used to clean up the Joker's gang and to rescue Tim are not the same, but they are likely from the same batch of goods the Joker's gang acquired three months ago. The most plausible speculation is that someone took advantage of the chaos following the gang leader's death to loot the gang. There's no evidence that the shooters are the same person, but based on software simulations, both Barbara and Tim believe that the two shooters share striking similarities in their tactical approach, infiltration, and retreat routes, which align with Bruce's behavioral patterns.

To stand against the vigilantes (though, can vigilantes and criminals really be considered "opposites"?), Batman certainly isn't starting from scratch. After all, Matches Malone is a notable figure in Gotham's underworld. However, it's understandable that all resources and connections related to Matches are under close surveillance now. Bruce's remaining option is to take a path similar to the Red Hood—possibly even incorporating some of Talia's methods.

According to Tim, Bruce's center of gravity hasn't changed when moving, and the areas that were severely injured remain weak points in his combat. So either Bruce hasn't used the Lazarus water provided by Talia, or he's deliberately leading them to think that. But if it's the latter, they can't see any advantage for doing so. Honestly, Jason is skeptical about Talia only providing Bruce with one vial of Lazarus water. She's not the type to give without expecting something in return. Back then, Talia didn't directly ask Jason for anything because Jason's revenge against Gotham and Bruce was sufficient payment for her. But now, her transaction is with Bruce himself, and a Bruce who, on the surface, is closer to her path than ever before. Jason doesn't believe she can resist that.

Barbara agrees with his opinion, but after contacting Damian, Talia checked into the Gotham Royal Hotel as the daughter of a Middle Eastern tycoon. She hasn't made any grand announcements about investing in Gotham's industries or anything attention-grabbing, nor has she secretly met with any important figures. Until her intentions become clearer, increasing surveillance isn't cost-effective.

"I'm screening every gang member died since Bruce's escape. They're increasing by the hour, which will keep me busy for a while."

"Every single one?" Jason leaned on the edge of the safe house's small desk, rocking his chair to stretch his back. "Are you saying B might have killed more people than we know?"

His stomach twisted like a cold, wet rag being wrung by an invisible hand. Before Jason could figure out exactly how he felt, Barbara continued her explanation.

"If his primary goal was to eliminate the remaining members of the Joker's gang, from an efficiency standpoint, he shouldn't have passed by Red Robin's location last night." The sound of keyboard typing came through the communication helmet. "We can't rule out reasons like concern, but we're all scattered across different parts of Gotham, and the Arkham riot is clearly more dangerous. His priority in choosing Tim must have other considerations."

For a moment, a sarcastic remark about Bruce favoring replacements was on the tip of Jason's tongue, but now wasn't the time for nonsense.

"This war feels strange," he said, letting the chair legs slam back to the ground. "I can't put my finger on it. I have other sources in the underworld, and I've just compiled all the intel from my informants... something's off."

Barbara gave him a moment to gather his thoughts, then calmly said, "From what I've seen so far, out of the deaths I've reconstructed, twelve during the day are suspicious. Three of them were ruled as accidents—car crash, improper storage of explosives, medical malpractice... The other nine all involved firearms. Half of the guns have no records in the system, and the models are almost all different, including various calibers of handguns and semi-automatic rifles. I've sent you the materials."

"If it's him, it makes sense. His experience with guns might not be enough to..." Realizing what he was saying, Jason stopped. A chill similar to when he was inspecting the Joker gang members' corpses crept up his spine. The notification sound of a new email was like a small hammer tapping on his skull.

"He's training," Barbara concluded.

"Ha, none of the dead are superpowered criminals. He probably categorized them as beginner level," Jason's voice was dry, and the Lazarus water began to stir in his veins again.

He clicked through the personal profiles of the deceased one by one. Most were mid-level gang members with real power but not particularly famous. By his standards, they were all scum who deserved to die. Jason wasn't sure if that made him feel any better. Bruce's efficiency was much higher than Red Hood. Was it because he didn't use the Lazarus water? Or because these deaths meant nothing to Bruce, merely testing which guns he preferred to use?

Bruce, after countless times risking his life to save criminals, after beating and nearly killing Jason to protect a criminal's life...

"Truly pathetic. He saved Tim, but we can't even be sure if that means he still cares," Barbara took a deep breath and sighed heavily. Jason could almost see her massaging her temples.

"How's Dickie-bird doing?"

"Also refused the Batsuit. Looks like we'll have to handle Gotham without Batman. I haven't mentioned this part to the others yet, but they probably have some idea," Barbara's tone held no reproach. "The only good news is that Damian actually referred to Tim as 'Drake-Wayne' during the shareholders' meeting. I hope you boys don't all have to reach this point to make progress."

"Baby Bird not planning to try again?" A strange mix of bitterness and the urge to smile tugged at Jason. He was still the outlier, the one Barbara turned to first when discussing matters of killing, yet her tone and manner suggested it was nothing out of the ordinary, that he naturally belonged in the family. "He's grown bigger, right? He might fit into Dick's suit. Or let the Demon Brat try it—Baby Batman would definitely scare the crap out of Penguin."

"Guess what? Damian might actually agree," Barbara chuckled. "If I can convince Dick and Tim to have a proper talk tonight, and you egg Damian on, maybe we'll all get some footage."

Jason continued flipping through the files, cross-referencing Barbara's materials with the intel he had gathered, while refining their Baby Batman plan with her. Barbara planned to write a new setting in the existing simulation program to predict Bruce's next targets from a training perspective, but Bruce was likely still advancing some main plan—training while setting tasks, typical Batman style—making it difficult to distinguish the motives behind each killing. Regardless, once she finished, Jason was quite willing to give it a try.

After a while, they both fell silent, focusing on their work, only keeping the line open. Jason had grown somewhat accustomed to working alone (guess who often declared, "I work alone"?), but having someone to collaborate and support him felt pretty good too.

"Jason?" Barbara suddenly said, "I just sent you a link."

"Hold on," Jason scribbled on his notes. "It's pretty much what I thought. If it's about redrawing the power map, the gang conflicts should revolve around the Joker's former territory. That's exactly what happened in the days right after the Joker's death, but now—"

"Someone is manipulating the gang war, inciting conflicts according to their own agenda, spreading it across all of Gotham," Barbara didn't sound the least bit surprised. "You know, Bruce wrote some plans about completely eradicating the gangs, but they mostly stayed theoretical due to the high risks and costs. After Stephanie's last attempt, he never considered implementing them again."

"Now the prerequisites have changed," Jason said. "Dead criminals won't escape from prison, bribe, threaten juries, or manipulate public opinion. No extra effort is needed to keep an eye on them. Even if they come back to life inexplicably like I did, it's just one more bullet."

"And with the formation of the Bat-Family, the number and strength of the vigilantes we can mobilize have increased significantly. We have the capacity to control a more intense war. Maybe he's decided the risk is worth taking now," Barbara seemed to lean back heavily. "About this, I suggest you check out the link I sent you first, Jason."

Jason wanted to rush out of the safe house, pick some unlucky thug, and break all their bones with a crowbar. But he'd been in this state a lot lately, and it seemed there would be no shortage of opportunities to beat people up in the near future. So after a brief internal struggle, Jason picked up his phone, flopped onto the bed, and clicked on Barbara's link.

"I endured the pain of separation from Damian, hoping my son would receive a more modern education," Talia stood tall, wearing a deep green dress with distinct Arabic influences, adorned with intricate gold hairpieces, earrings, and necklaces, calmly facing the camera like a noble queen (in some ways, she truly was). "But Bruce has disappointed me. Not only did he fail to take good care of our son, but he also committed barbaric acts that no nation could tolerate..."

"Holy shit," Jason muttered.

36.

Nothing.

The image froze at the moment just before Bruce dropped the gun. Bruce had just shot through the Joker's head. His legs were slightly apart, shoulder-width, in the Batman stance that wasted not an ounce of energy, only his shoulders tilted slightly to absorb the recoil. These were things everyone could see, not what she read from people.

Dick descended the spiral staircase leading to the Batcave. Weaknesses: left knee and right rib injured. Pain. Fatigue. Worry. Anger. Disbelief.

"Hey, Cass." Concern. Desire to confide. Curiosity. Fear. Pain. Guilt. "Watching this again? Found anything?"

"Same," Cassandra replied.

Pain. Restraint. Protective instinct. Guilt.

"Then stop watching."

She knew Dick would reach out to turn off the video, and she glanced at the screen one last time before he did. Her ability wasn't malfunctioning, but the conclusion remained the same.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, I've watched it many times too."

Dick didn't understand. Humans weren't "nothing"; their feelings and thoughts were constantly revealed through their bodies. To her, everyone was a walking signal source. When Cassandra walked the streets or attended social events, she always detected boredom and murderous intent between lovers, control and attempts to escape between parents and children. It took her a long time to explain to Barbara that she couldn't take the kind of "vacation" they expected.

She only knew of one situation where the signals emanating from a person would suddenly stop. Cassandra had decided to live, no longer viewing taking up the mantle and fighting to the death as her sole purpose in life, but she had never forgotten: the man's eyes widened, staring at the little girl who suddenly leaped before him, then looked down and saw the hole in his chest. Fear... and then nothing. The corpse lay there, the wound continuing to bleed, but aside from that, it was no different from the surrounding furniture in terms of shape. She had turned a person into an object. That was the meaning of killing.

At the moment the Joker died, whether as Batman or Bruce... the man they knew was in a state of death. He died for an instant, then dropped the gun, and exhaustion crashed back onto him like a mountain, almost making Cassandra, who was watching him, feel dizzy in empathy. With Tim's appearance, worry and guilt surfaced beneath the heavy exhaustion. Bruce feared Tim would fall into self-blame.

"Did you see Talia's interview?" Dick asked. Annoyance. Disbelief. Worry.

"Lies," Cassandra replied. "And conspiracy. Love."

"I figured as much. Practically a summary of Bruce's whole love life." Fatigue. Worry. Affection. Annoyance. Relief. "Damian's still taking a nap. Getting that kid to admit he's tired is almost like killing him, but he fell asleep in the tea room while brushing Titus. Tim's sitting next to him working, said he'd keep an eye on him."

Protective instinct. So much protective instinct.

"Brothers," Cassandra said, and Dick laughed. Joy. Guilt. Relief. Worry. Protective instinct.

"You should see Tim being a big brother. I mean, he's been doing it for a while, but when he consciously acts like one, it's ridiculously adorable. Oh my god, he even gets shy!" Affection. Protective instinct. Guilt.

"Damian will be fine," Cassandra said.

At least, she sincerely hoped so.

Chapter Text

37.

"Guilt," Cassandra summarized. "Everyone."

Dick understood what she meant: everyone who had ever been Robin would unconsciously feel responsible for Batman's state. Tim blamed himself for not stopping Bruce from losing control, while the others regretted not being there that night. As the first and longest-serving Robin, according to Barbara, Dick was the most affected by "Robin guilt." She had long pointed out that Dick barely had a personal life, which even led to their last breakup—Dick couldn't say he had improved much. Whenever he spent too much time pursuing his own happiness, Dick felt as if he were betraying Bruce's teachings. Sometimes, the only thing that could motivate him was the Bat-Signal.

From this perspective, there was yet another angle to the judgment that he wasn't a good role model. Jason had his own rhythm, Tim was increasingly leaning in that direction, and Damian... this kid's goal seemed to have always been to step into a life dominated solely by work. He enjoyed painting and animals, but he never truly incorporated these interests into his career plans. Every time Dick tried to tell him that he had other choices, that he didn't have to become Batman or the leader of the League of Assassins, Damian would interpret it as Dick doubting his abilities and then do something reckless to prove himself.

"Yeah, I get it," Dick exhaled, gently moving his aching left knee. There was no point pretending he wasn't injured in front of Cass. Sometimes her ability was downright terrifying to him—and even more so when he thought about the possibility that Cass might have already figured out what he was thinking at this moment.

"It's okay," Cass said softly. Dick's heart skipped a beat, and when he saw her lower her gaze with a hint of hurt, turning toward the spiral staircase, he panicked.

"Wait, I'm sorry!" He stepped in front of Cass before she could leave. She could easily dodge or even take him down to get away, but she stopped, giving Dick a glimmer of hope. "I didn't mean... what you thought I meant, I mean—"

"It's okay," Cass looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Sometimes... it's like this. Stephanie and Barbara are like this too. When they don't want to talk about something, but I can tell, I don't always know if I should ask."

"No one blames you for that," Dick said. "You're the best, you know that?"

"I know," Cass smiled, her dark eyes sincere and clear. "I chose to be like this. There was a time when I stopped being like this, but I couldn't be Batgirl anymore. Bruce told me it would take years of training to get this fast again, and I chose to regain it. So, it's okay."

Dick swallowed hard. "Well, I..."

Before he could finish, Cass stepped forward and hugged him. If you tried to surprise Cass with a bear hug, you might end up flipped (yes, Dick had tried it—never approach any assassin from behind unless they're as small as Damian). But when Cass was willing, her hugs would be exactly what you needed. Like now, her arms tightly wrapped around Dick's ribs, slightly restricting his breathing but avoiding all his injuries, her palms flat against his back. Dick's nose stung sharply.

"Sometimes I wish others could be like you, not needing me to explain or..." He wasn't going to cry in his younger sister's arms. Breaking down in front of Jason last time was embarrassing enough. "I'm supposed to be the one in this family who's good at talking, right? Compared to Bruce, I'm practically a master of communication. But sometimes, with the people I care about... it's so hard."

"I understand."

Being too close to read his body language, Cass was clearly a bit unsure, hesitating as she patted his back. Dick found it hard not to laugh.

"Do you remember that time when you and Bruce were in conflict? You wouldn't talk to him, and in fact, you barely talked to any of us. Bruce was really frustrated, and then you two worked on that new drug case together..."

"He got us all poisoned, to fight me," Cass's voice carried a clear hint of amusement. "To make me understand what he meant, to ask for my thoughts."

"It was insane, that bastard. Babs and I were almost scared to death."

"We all hit you."

"Yeah, I paid him back for that later," Dick shook his head against her. "If I say I'm actually a little glad he saved Tim, does that make me a bad person?"

"I miss him too," Cass replied.

38.

There was nothing surprising about Tim decided to tell Damian about Talia directly—her video had already spread across the internet. It was only a matter of time before Damian found out. But Tim asking Barbara to connect to the tea room's cameras to monitor Damian's reaction made her chuckle. She could imagine Tim's mind racing, drafting and discarding plans on how to break the news while waiting for Damian to wake up, and finally deciding to have her remotely supervise as a safety measure.

Well, this was what the kid looked like when he realized he had truly become an older brother. Dick would love this.

Damian's way of waking up was a bit startling. Unlike most kids who would frown, rub their eyes, and groggily get up, Damian's eyes snapped open, his back straightening as he scanned the room for potential threats. Only after ensuring there was no danger did he relax slightly, nudging the black-and-white cat stretching on his lap. Barbara noticed Tim's hand tightening around his stylus.

"I was grooming Alfred the Cat," Damian said defensively.

"Yeah, I saw," Tim replied, saving the email he was working on and pushing it to the background. He pulled up the video of Talia's declaration, hesitated for a few seconds, then turned the tablet toward Damian. "I think... you need to see this."

"Mother?!" Damian exclaimed. Alfred the Cat jumped off his lap, and Damian sprang to his feet, staggering slightly from the numbness in his legs, but that didn't stop him from snatching the tablet from Tim.

The video, which Barbara had watched at least dozens of times during audio and image analysis, began playing again. When a look of deep betrayal appeared on Damian's face, she was certain Tim was internally berating himself for making the wrong decision.

"It's going to be okay," Tim reassured as soon as Damian put the tablet down. "I've already been in touch with the legal team. Dick is our best option. His job as a police officer might raise concerns about not having enough time to spend with you, but he's already proven he's willing to put work aside to be there for you. He doesn't have company control, but Bruce has been depositing a significant amount into his fund over the years, so finances aren't an issue. I've already added three properties under his name that should convince CPS and the court. Though you might have to say some things in front of the camera that you hate—"

"We can expose her," Damian interrupted coldly. "She must have some scheme. We can tell everyone she's a criminal! She runs a murderous organization. She's a terrorist!"

Well, Barbara would definitely have to find out who at school had been calling Damian that.

"Uh... we probably can't," Tim said.

"Why not? Father wouldn't object—"

"We don't have proof, Damian. I've destroyed most of the League of Assassins' bases, but I'm sure there are still plenty of assassins willing to take the fall for Talia and Ra's."

What Tim didn't say was that if they had solid evidence, he and Bruce would have already sent Ra's and Talia to prison. But custody battles and criminal proceedings were different. If Bruce's family could present a unified front in portraying Talia as a criminal—including pinning Damian's injuries on her abuse (which wasn't entirely unfair)—and tarnish her reputation, she was unlikely to win the case. The problem was they couldn't do this without hurting Damian. Barbara didn't think Damian could bear living under the gaze of Gotham's pity. She agreed with Dick—Damian secretly hoped his parents would one day marry openly. If Talia became a public enemy, that hope would be shattered.

"Her forged documents show she's financially well-off, which largely offsets Bruce's advantages. Plus, she's promised to continue living with you in the U.S., so the drawbacks of taking you back to her homeland are eliminated," Tim explained, raising his hands to calm Damian. "But if you could show, uh... deep familial affection toward us—mainly Dick—in front of the cameras, it would help a lot. We could release some footage of how you just intimidated the entire board without using violence. Public opinion would lean toward respecting your views. It'd also help if you could rationally explain your past behavior... things like that."

By the end, Barbara could tell Tim was almost giving up. Damian had always held a disdainful attitude toward pretending to be a "good kid" in the conventional sense, hating media events even more than Cass. Without Bruce's orders, getting Damian to agree to an interview was next to impossible.

"Understood," Damian said sullenly. "Inform me once the interview schedule is arranged."

Tim's restraint in not pinching that pouty little face was truly commendable.

39.

"I have already apologized to my sister Cassandra, and now I am also willing to apologize for the negative impact I have caused in the public sphere, including the lies my mother spread in order to take me away," the boy said solemnly, looking directly into the camera. "My family is going through a difficult time..."

Damian's cooperation solved a significant portion of the problem. Honestly, Tim wasn't angry anymore, but he certainly wouldn't forget how Damian had incited the board to issue a vote of no confidence while Tim was already overwhelmed. A disobedient Damian might not be of much help, but he could definitely create mountains of trouble.

That said, watching Damian step into the spotlight under the flashing cameras wasn't easy either. They had agreed that Tim, the second youngest in the family, would accompany Damian for the first round of interviews. Without the presence of older family members, the public would be more likely to believe that their statements came from the heart. Additionally, Tim's experience managing Wayne Enterprises since he was seventeen served as a positive example of Bruce's parenting. Damian stood straight during his speech, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Tim wished he could shield Damian and demand the reporters stop harassing his younger brother.

Talia would be furious. While they hadn't accused her of abusing Damian, they had attributed Damian's violent behavior toward Cass under extreme pressure to the education he received from his mother and grandfather. Damian assured everyone that Bruce and the rest of the family had been correcting his behavior, teaching him to respect women. Dick had also imposed punishments like grounding and cutting off his allowance, which Damian fully acknowledged he deserved.

Somewhat ironically, Tim then saw several clips of Damian's teachers and classmates being interviewed. Most of them believed Damian equally looked down on everyone, which wasn't particularly targeted. Ms. Vermont, the art teacher, clearly had a soft spot for Damian, praising him as a highly talented and well-mannered boy and expressing hope for his swift return to class. The history teacher (one could imagine how Damian would critique American-written world history) and two male classmates hinted to varying degrees that Damian exhibited the tendencies they had falsely claimed. Based on Damian's reaction to seeing these people on screen, Tim thought it necessary to investigate further.

Vicki Vale was helping them write press releases favorable to defeating Talia, in exchange for more truths about Bruce. She was undoubtedly concerned about Bruce's safety and mental state, but she surprisingly took the possibility of Bruce killing the Joker quite well, stating that only a lunatic in Gotham wouldn't want the Joker dead. Perhaps that was the normal reaction. Although public opinion was moving in the direction they hoped, Dick and Damian still had to be on standby for various inspections, greatly reducing their daytime mobility. Tim's situation was slightly better, but with the board restless, he couldn't fully commit to the search for Bruce. The shortage of manpower was becoming increasingly severe. Cassandra informed the Chinese Batman that she wouldn't be returning to Hong Kong for the time being, and Stephanie had to take sick leave from school—she pretended her college degree wasn't important, but it was. Tim knew exactly how much effort she had put into returning to a normal life.

One of the few pieces of good news was that Jason had started responding to calls. Like Alfred, he never mentioned his earlier intention to kill Bruce. If Tim asked, he would probably say he was joking, but Tim knew he wasn't. The Red Hood had given Black Mask a brutal lesson, stuffing both the man and his private arsenal into the already overburdened police station. He then raided the territories of gangs whose leaders had been imprisoned in Arkham and suffered heavy casualties recently, accumulating enough capital to broker a degree of peace with the likes of Penguin, Catwoman, and Two-Face, maintaining basic street security as much as possible. It was predictable that this series of high-intensity actions would lead to severe backlash. When Tim tried to gauge the extent of Jason's injuries, the answer was always "I can handle it." Selina promised to keep an eye on Jason, but she had her own troubles to deal with.

This situation wasn't like the time Ra's attacked everyone Bruce loved. Tim had to be extremely cautious about involving other superheroes in this conflict, which severely limited his options. In the end, Tim called Prudence. He knew the others would vehemently oppose his request for support from a former assassin, but she was the only one willing to promise not to ask any questions in exchange for payment.

However—

"Why were you able to get here so quickly?" Tim asked suspiciously. "What were you doing near Gotham?"

"A mission," Prudence replied, crossing her arms and giving him an expressionless look.

"You didn't... never mind, forget I asked," Tim pressed his temples, deciding not to delve into what an assassin's "mission" might entail. Dick and Damian would kill him.

But wait. Hold on.

"You responded to my call, which means your mission is already completed?"

The bald assassin hesitated for a moment. She didn't scold or confront Tim for prying, which meant... regret?

"...Correct."

"Just completed?"

"Correct."

Oh God, Tim had made a fatal mistake.

"You knew I would call you—no, someone told you I would call you," he glared at Prudence, who met his gaze without flinching. "He told you to notify him when I called you, which means... which means..."

Prudence was quite far down the list of trusted allies, essentially Tim's personal backup option. Once he called Prudence, it meant the pressure they were under had exceeded a certain threshold. The mastermind behind this had likely marked this event as the signal to advance the plan to the next stage.

"What else can you expect from an assassin? His offer was tempting, and I had to choose between accepting it or going to jail," Prudence shrugged. "But he didn't restrict my subsequent actions. If you're done being mad and decide I can still be of help, I'm at your service—but you'll have to pay the same price."

Chapter Text

40.

At dawn, Talia dropped her second bombshell: Damian's (altered) medical records, showing that he had been shot and suffered a spinal injury two years ago. Of course, she couldn't reveal that she had used biotech to replace Damian's spine, but she undoubtedly provided CPR with credible surgical records and images. The timing of Damian's shooting coincided with a period when Bruce was acting particularly erratic in public (because he was "dead" at the time, and the Bruce seen in public was actually Hush). It wasn't hard to imagine the kind of speculation this would spark.

"So, B is an intermittent psychopath who goes around beating people up when he has an episode? Uh, should I say they guessed right? In a way, we're just a big family of mentally ill people held together by our shared insanity," Stephanie stretched out in the bathtub. With Tim having just raised the alert level, she probably shouldn't be wasting time on a bath, but she felt like her suit had practically fused with her skin.

"I don't remember clearly, but didn't the kid return to Gotham short after that?" Jason's voice was accompanied by the sound of gun parts clinking as he assembled a weapon. "We all know it was because of tech and magic or whatever, but Talia can't exactly tell the reporters that."

"Right. If we could provide evidence of Damian moving normally shortly after the surgery date, Talia's credibility would take a serious hit—unless she could explain how she managed to get Damian to recover so quickly," Barbara's communication was, as usual, accompanied by the clicking of a mouse and keyboard. "But the problem is we can't give them photos of him in the suit. Damian wasn't in school at the time, and his media exposure was minimal. He was in... you know, the pre-socialization phase."

"I wouldn't say that phase has ended," Stephanie chuckled.

"And the rest of us were busy fighting over that damn cape, then Baby Bird went off to prove B was alive, and Dickie was busy stabilizing Gotham," Jason's voice grew sharper. "I'm the one who shot him, so obviously I'm not much help either."

"I'm sure your time in Arkham was enough to atone for that, Hood," Barbara said lightly.

"By the way, did you really let a ten-year-old who just had his spine replaced—by the way, I still can't believe that—skip any recovery period and go straight back to street?" Stephanie tried to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. "Is there a chance you're all crazier than Talia? Not including me, I wasn't around then."

"He insisted—and at the time, none of the vigilantes' physical health was the top priority."

Tim's voice sounded fairly normal over the comms, if a bit monotone. In contrast, the faint sounds Stephanie could hear from outside the bathroom door were much worse. She had only recently learned that Tim was using a special voice modulation program. Its purpose wasn't to separate Tim Drake from Red Robin externally, but to make Tim's voice sound healthier than it actually was—who would write a program just to make themselves sound less tired?

Stephanie sighed, got up, grabbed a towel, and cut her bath short, deciding that even if she had to tie him down, she was going to make Tim sleep for a while. It wasn't that she didn't want to ban Tim from using the program, but he'd only expend more energy or come up with other dumb ways to pretend he was fine. It was better to compromise: Stephanie would keep his secret, and Tim was strictly forbidden from disguising his voice in private communications with her. Spoiler would never help Robin lie like this, but the fourth Batgirl could conditionally agree to keep Red Robin's secret. Maybe that was part of growing up.

"Anyway, we don't have much public footage of Damian from that time, and witness testimonies could easily be dismissed as coerced or bribed," Tim continued. "Dick and Damian are still tangled up with the agencies, and Dr. Thompkins' medical report doesn't mention the spinal surgery. With the two conflicting, a mandatory physical examination is probably going to happen."

"Damn," Jason succinctly summed up everyone's feelings.

Stephanie wrapped herself in a towel and walked behind Tim, massaging his temples. Tim resisted symbolically for a few seconds before leaning back into her hands, proving just how exhausted he was. Hearing a sigh of relief, Stephanie slid her hands forward to cover Tim's eyes and turned off his comms. Until Bruce's next move was fully revealed, this was the only break Tim was going to get.

"The only option left is to prove Talia's records are fake, but due to patient privacy laws, it's hard for us to legally obtain the originals," Barbara added. "If we submit them to a third-party agency for verification, the results will likely confirm they're real—because they are."

"But it could buy us some time, right?" Stephanie asked. "From pplication, agency selection, document submission to getting the results, I remember it takes at least a few weeks."

"That's all we can do for now," Tim muttered, his eyes still closed. "I've already told the lawyers to cause as much trouble as possible for the other side during the verification process. The problem is..."

Stephanie relayed the first half of Tim's sentence. The rest of the people online would know anyway: the problem was how much time Bruce planned to give them.

"What's wrong, Black Bat?" Barbara suddenly asked.

Stephanie was sure her motion of massaging Tim's eyes hadn't changed, but Tim suddenly sat up straight, reaching for the communicator as if he could read minds.

"Where's Scarecrow?" Cassandra had already put on her gas mask.

"Arkham. I checked the security situation on my way back from patrol," Jason said, the sound of the last gun part clicking into place audible. "Why?"

"Multiple, south side of Gotham Roya, seems to hit with fear gas," Cassandra was rapidly approaching the screams of terror. "I'm going down to check."

"I'll go too," Stephanie said, frantically putting on her gear. Damn it, her hair was still wet, and her suit smelled like bat-cow.

"I'll arrange for Prudence to take over Black Bat's watch on Talia. I'll head to Arkham, just in case," Tim stood up, swaying slightly. Stephanie really wanted to knock him out. "I still recommend you take command at the Batcave, Oracle. Notify Nightwing and Robin as soon as they're free. Red Hood—"

Jason gasped, and Stephanie's heart leapt into her throat. She exchanged a horrified look with Tim, who hadn't even put on his cowl yet. For a moment, the entire comm line fell silent.

"Penguin's dead," Jason said.

41.

Damn it, damn it all, fuck Bruce Wayne and Batman.

Penguin was the most significant of the gang leaders Jason had managed to persuade, and now, without a doubt, all his efforts had gone down the drain. Jason held no illusions. On his way to the scene, he fired shots and threw various bombs to intimidate, but the Iceberg Lounge seemed to be in complete chaos. Most of Penguin's men were fleeing, and no one was seriously trying to stop him.

It shouldn't have been like this. The Penguin's gang was a well-established, mature organization, and this wasn't the first time their leader had been assassinated. The sporadic gunfire indicated that the fight wasn't over, but even so, the gang shouldn't have lost all basic order. Jason stopped his motorcycle in confusion and rushed into the side entrance of the Iceberg Lounge. Then he understood.

Laughter.

Ice and fire surged through Jason's veins. He knew he wasn't in good shape: his limbs were heavy, his body ached, and he had been shot in the left upper arm—but clear awareness didn't make panic attacks any easier to handle. Jason instinctively yanked off his helmet, which wasn't helpful for regulating his breathing. He ordered himself to close his mouth and breathe slowly through his nose, but his lungs felt like bellows being squeezed fiercely, completely refusing to obey.

"Hey, be careful, kid!"

A leather-covered hand clamped over his mouth. If it hadn't been Catwoman behind him, Jason's elbow strike would have definitely broken a few ribs. He adjusted his breathing through Selina's hand, which was difficult with the laughter still echoing around. He had to convince his brain that every amplified pain wasn't because his bones were being broken again, and that his breathing wasn't obstructed because his lungs were filled with blood.

"Better?" Selina asked softly. Jason nodded. She might not know exactly what had happened to him, but she chose to help him.He would remember this favor.

"You'd better keep it on." Catwoman's sharp nails tapped on Jason's helmet. Clearly, she was also wearing a gas mask. "Joker's toxin, the epicenter is in the VIP box on the first floor. When I pulled out, there were about fifteen infected still alive."

Jason had to struggle not to vomit inside his helmet, his lungs and throat aching even more.

"Is he inside?"

Selina hesitated, "Yes, but I don't think he's still himself—Red Hood! Listen..."

When he arrived, he saw the blast marks near the generator. Bruce had cut off the power to this block and the backup power of the Iceberg Lounge. Only the green glow of the exit signs lit the corridor. Jason activated the night vision in his helmet. He was carrying a gun loaded with live rounds, the muzzle spitting sparks as bodies laughing and rushing towards him fell one after another, the blood splattering on the walls composing a grotesque painting.

"Oh my god!" Selina stopped, "They're dead! You killed them!"

A brief doubt about collateral damage flashed through Jason's roaring mind, but at this time of the morning, the core members of the Penguin's gang should have been in a meeting, there wouldn't be unrelated guests in the club. And... he trusted Bruce's ability to avoid that. For over a decade, Bruce had been sending criminals to prison alive. Perhaps the corner of Jason's heart that blindly believed in Batman wasn't dead after all.

In the VIP box, there were only two bodies that had died instantly from the high concentration of toxin. Before kicking open the door to the hall, Jason turned off the night vision. The daylight filtering through the iceberg-shaped skylight was faint, but enough for Jason to see the person matters. Bruce was standing with his back to him, a pool of blood gradually expanding at his feet, his hands raised, held at gunpoint by a gang member who was intermittently laughing. The guy admirably maintained most of his consciousness, calling for reinforcements between bouts of hysterical laughter, but willpower couldn't stop the bullet that blew his head off.

"Not going to say thank you?" Jason lowered his gun and walked towards Bruce, "Not bad for a fellow, huh? Or am I still the same as them to you?"

Others would be furious, he had just cut off his own retreat, he could never go back to that home again. But if this could make Bruce (whatever he was now) recognize the Red Hood as a kindred spirit, allowing the Red Hood to cooperate with him, then Jason would have a chance to get close to him, to find his weakness. Jason didn't care about others' opinions, just like many criminals weren't afraid of Batman but feared the Red Hood. Pissing off the bats at most would only get you locked up in Arkham or Blackgate.

"You've finally become what I like, maybe we should have a drink. I bet there's wine buried somewhere underground that's more valuable than those cufflinks of yours." Maybe he was genuinely laughing, he put his left hand on Bruce's shoulder, "Come on, maybe you need a new codename, like Black—"

Bruce turned around. Half of his face was splattered with blood and human tissue, with green eyes, and a bright red mouth split open to his ears.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

"What are you doing?!" Jason realized he had fired a shot when Selina knocked him flying, the bullet grazing Bruce's neck. Bruce didn't even have the instinct to cover the wound, blood gushing from his neck and all his wounds, he had been shot at least three times, but he seemed not to feel it, just kept laughing.

"I don't care who's over there! Get here now!" Selina disarmed Jason, throwing the gun far away, while constantly shouting into the communicator, "Everything's out of control! I can't handle both of them at the same time!"

The next second, police rushed into the Iceberg Lounge from all directions.

"GCPD! Drop your weapons! Get down! Hands behind your head!"

"Let's go!" Selina threw a smoke bomb, wrapped some kind of rope around Jason's waist, pulling both of them onto the roof, "Ow, put some effort! You're not a kitten!"

Jason numbly followed her out of the skylight, over a few houses, when she stopped, Jason only had time to take off his helmet.

"Ugh!" Selina jumped back, avoiding the tragic scene of vomit splashing on her shiny leather boots, "What was that? Did I remember wrong, or does the Batman alliance cooperation manual actually say 'No killing'? Weren't you invited to the party?"

Jason had only eaten two energy bars in the past six hours, his abdomen seemed to decide to turn itself inside out like taking off a pair of leather pants.

"No... yes... he was wearing a helmet, I don't know if that thing is gasproof." Selina's attention returned to the communicator, "No, I just said he's not injured, but I assure you he's not anywhere near 'good'. You have to watch him, I mean it—watch out!"

Jason stumbled to the edge of the roof, seeing a laughing man being pushed out of the Iceberg Lounge tied with restraints, the ambulance closing its doors after receiving the stretcher, flashing lights driving away from the crime scene.

Chapter Text

42.

Tim didn't recall Cass ever spending this long observing someone.

"He hasn't," Cass said.

"You mean, he's not really... turned into the Joker, or something like that?" Stephanie confirmed.

"He hasn't," Cass's voice grew more certain. "He's also affected by the Joker toxin, his body language is vague... but he hasn't become the Joker. He's more lucid than he appears. I'm sure. His eyes are wearing contact lenses."

"Okay," Tim refused to admit his knees felt weak; there was definitely more than one person on the line who breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Black Bat. Can you keep an eye on him until I get there?"

Cass tapped the communicator in affirmation. Tim had to hurry to relieve her; she was the one among them who hadn't rested the longest. Of course, she also had the best endurance, but they certainly shouldn't be testing her limits.

"Red Hood, you're not on the line, Black Bat says—"

"I don't care," Jason was sitting on the ground against the rooftop stairwell, his head buried low between his knees. Selina had at least dragged him away from his own vomit. She stood a few steps away, clearly thinking it better not to provoke Jason.

"Bastard level three can't even describe what he did," Stephanie said angrily. "Why didn't he wear a gas mask? Does he think this is fun?"

"Because he wants to get himself into Arkham," Tim replied. "Psychiatric evaluations take time. Killing the Joker isn't enough to prove you're insane, but escaping from prison, disappearing, and then going on a killing spree with Joker makeup is definitely enough."

"His goal has been achieved; the police station and hospital have just signed off on his transfer. Can't blame them, they have to consider the safety of other patients," Barbara said. "This doesn't conflict with Red Robin's plan, I think there's no need to interfere... but are you sure, Tim?"

"Yes," Tim twisted his neck, as if something hard and sharp was stuck in his throat. "We're going to lock him up in 'B1209'. Black Bat and I will check for any possible weaknesses and risks in the ward, and I'll leave the monitoring to you."

The line fell silent; even Jason looked up upon hearing that number.

"B1209?" Selina asked.

"He reserved a ward for himself in Arkham years ago, in case of a breakdown or other... irreversible mental damage during his duties," Tim explained. "As a contingency plan against Batman, every Robin has to learn about it."

Selina was silent for a moment, "Sounds like him."

She shifted her steps, turning to the other side of the roof. The sunlight caressed the leather that clung to her curves.

"Are you okay?"

"Compared to you? I'm doing fine," Catwoman let out a laugh, perhaps with a hint of a tremble, but she would say it was just some little trick to make herself sound pitiful. "I'm a thief, little bird, which means I always like things that don't belong to me... and I'm always prepared to lose them."

She took light steps, then spread her arms, leaping onto the railing like an agile feline, and jumped down: "Go deal with the big bad bat, today you can leave Gotham to the cats!"

"I'm with her," Jason suddenly said, pushing himself up against the wall.

"You can do whatever you want," Tim said. "But you need to know, B didn't—"

Jason let out a laugh: "Oh, is that great? He DELIBERATELY did that to me! Is this better than him going crazy or dying? Do whatever I want? Do you know what you're saying? I shot him! If it weren't for Catwoman, he'd be dead! Head blown to pieces!"

Tim was at a loss for words. The part of his brain focused on the task was still endlessly listing, reasoning, analyzing: the fear gas incident was almost certainly the work of Talia's assassins, Stephanie was still cleaning up; Talia herself hadn't left the hotel, frequently accepting interviews and inquiries from various agency staff, with Pru reporting all personnel in contact with her; Dick had left early with Damian, which wouldn't earn them points with the agency; Barbara was following up on the investigation progress of the Iceberg Lounge case, she advised Jason to avoid dealing with the police for now... Apart from that, his brain seemed to have stopped functioning. The police had already started calling the whole incident of destroying the Penguin's gang the "Iceberg Massacre," and the media would only use more sensational words. Twenty-three dead, four in critical condition. Massacre. Bruce.

"Don't, don't give me that," Jason said coldly as Tim pushed the hood down. "I killed five people today. You think I'm still playing with you? I'm done with you all. You better—"

"You're not the first one who tried to stop him by joining him, Jason," Tim stared at Jason, making sure the second Robin understood his meaning. "I haven't... directly, killed anyone, but I'm prepared. I've always thought that one day I would, maybe—"

Tim felt a bit surprised when his head snapped to the left. Jason, who had just backhanded him, had fierce green eyes. For a moment, Tim was back at Titan Tower, where the owner of these eyes had thrown him down the stairs and slit his throat.

"Don't even think about it," Jason moved like a train, instantly pinning Tim against the wall with his forearm, pressing a gun against Tim's thigh.

"It's fine, he's already refused," Tim's head would probably swell later. "This trick doesn't work—"

"He's nothing! I didn't ask for his opinion!" Jason roared. "I'm telling you, if you dare to even think about it, dare to touch a gun, try me and see if I won't break your leg, or snap your arm, or break your spine... You fucking try it, REPLACEMENT."

Tim blinked, savoring the familiarity of hearing that word. After he stopped being Robin, "replacement" had gradually evolved into a somewhat sharp but harmless nickname between them, much like Damian calling him "Drake." As long as Tim didn't show excessive sensitivity, they didn't seem to intentionally use these words to convey harm. Ah, but Damian would definitely be furious if he knew about Tim's plans for Bruce. Tim could already mourn their budding brotherhood.

"Send him to Arkham, lock him up tight, don't let me see him anywhere else," Jason’s heavy breaths were hitting Tim's face. "That's your plan. Let me catch you doing anything extra..."

"That is indeed my current plan," Tim gently pushed Jason's arm. "Mind stepping back a bit? No offense, but you just threw up."

Jason let him go, and Tim straightened up, adjusting his suit. It wasn't even noon yet; daylight wasn't suitable for vigilante actions or concealment. Only nuts would choose to recklessly cross the line in human society under the sun. And right now, Jason was looking at him with the eyes of someone scrutinizing a madman.

"Listen: one of me is enough," Jason put on his hood. "Whether it's a killer vigilante or the black sheep of the family, I've already taken that spot. You absolutely can't do better than me. Look at yourself, Red Robin. You're an adult, a detective, a martial arts expert, and a businessman as rich as God. You can do whatever the hell you want—so stop eyeing someone else's spot. I used to call you replacement because I was hurt and jealous, but now it's because the only reason you seem to be alive is to wait to be someone's backup. You're so much more than that, and you're the only one in the world who doesn't know it."

Tim wasn't nearly crazy enough; otherwise, these words wouldn't have pierced his chest like a blade. Stephanie and Barbara had always encouraged him to find a new self-identity. They asked him what he wanted, and Tim struggled to give a concrete answer. Initially, he just wanted to help. In the Drake parents' obsession with ancient ruins, young Tim's only contribution was photography—he had little strength but plenty of money. Then he caught up with Batman and Robin, those two who flew through the night sky helping others. When Robin disappeared and Batman needed help, Tim reached out, and things happened one after another.

His deep-seated need was to be seen, but all his criminology research told him this was an unfulfillable wish. Not because no one saw him—no, he no longer allowed himself to think that way—but because no one could keep their eyes on him all the time. Everyone had to focus on themselves first. If he didn't find his own path, sooner or later, he would be consumed by an unfillable void, self-destructing like many criminals he had sent to prison. Tim knew this, but crime never took a break. The cost of his self-discovery could be lost lives and ruined futures. Bruce hardly ever took the time to face and solve his own problems until everything fell apart.

"If that's the case, Jason... no more killing until this is over," Tim pulled up his hood, the false sense of security returning to him. "Prove to me that what I've done so far is enough."

"Who do you think you are?" Red Hood sneered, just as Tim's newly activated comms buzzed with Alfred's voice. The moment Tim said "Penny-One," Jason realized something was wrong and opened his comms as well.

"Thank you both for taking the time to listen," Alfred quipped in his British accent, proving the situation wasn't entirely dire. "Oracle has been attacked. Satellite imagery shows it wasn't a physical attack like an explosion, but likely an electromagnetic pulse. Nightwing and Robin are already on their way. I'm rerouting communications from the Batcave."

"Jason!" Tim grabbed Red Hood, who was about to take off, and swung his staff to rest on Jason's shoulder.

"Enough!" Jason let out a heavy sigh, visibly annoyed as he ejected the magazine, letting the remaining live rounds clatter onto the rooftop. "You're making me go get rubber bullets again. If I get shot on the way, you better pray no one dunks me in the pit a second time."

"They won't, because I'll get there first," Tim said. "Sounds like a new role, doesn't it? So you better try not to die again."

"The nearest supply point has been sent to your microcomputer, Red Hood," Alfred interjected, cutting off any potential outburst from Jason. "It's always a pleasure to hear your voice."

"Thanks a freaking lot, Penny-One!" Jason flipped Tim off with a middle finger.

"You're welcome, and mind your language, and stay safe, my boys," Alfred said calmly.

"How did my life turn into this?" Jason grumbled as he leapt off the rooftop. Tim, in turn, fired his grapple and swung toward his motorcycle.

"Did someone just talk about 'life'?" Stephanie's voice chimed in. "What happened to Oracle?"

"She's fine, but several blocks nearby are power off, and the network is a complete mess. It'll probably take two hours to rebuild," Dick said, with a faint scream in the background. "When I say 'fine,' I mean she might have inhaled a small amount of anesthetic gas, but she insists she's okay. The gas composition is almost identical to what the League of Assassins used a few days ago, and we caught—enough, D! He's telling the truth!"

"He knows more!" Damian growled.

"He doesn't! You know Talia's style—she doesn't tell her assassins anything beyond their mission!" Dick must have been holding Damian back. "His target was Oracle! Now, hand him over to the police. We need to get to Arkham!"

"Leave someone to protect Oracle. She might be poisoned and—"

"Not necessary," Dick cut Tim off. "The Clocktower's systems are independent. They successfully intercepted the assassin. Oracle can protect herself."

Dick's tone wasn't as reassuring as his words, but if Barbara had convinced him, she could convince Tim too.

"Before the comms went down, Batgirl raised a rather insightful point," Alfred said. "Would you care to repeat it?"

"God, you sound like my classical literature professor! You're really making me nervous," Stephanie cleared her throat. "Uh, so I was distributing the fear toxin antidote earlier, right? Then I saw a police car driving off. There are cop cars everywhere around here, but you know, I have history with Black Mask, like a radar or something... Anyway, I noticed Black Mask was in the car, seemingly unconscious, so I followed it and saw it heading to Arkham. Kinda weird, right? He's a brutal villain, but I don't recall him going for the insanity plea much."

"Damn it!" Tim cursed. "Arkham's latest patient list?"

"Records show six patients were admitted after the last riot, the most recent being a schizophrenic named Ronald Summers," Alfred paused meaningfully. "The next one will be Bruce Wayne."

Chapter Text

43.

Gotham, the city that had long been under the protection of his father, had ungratefully decided to send his father to an asylum. What Damian found even more unbearable was that his family seemed to be willing to sit back and even push for this to happen.

"This is betrayal!" he shouted at his only audience present, hearing Drake let out a predictable sigh over the communicator.

"Not following the plan is the real betrayal to Batman!" Grayson glanced back towards the direction of the clock tower, visibly upset. "You're also Robin, aren't you? There's a subset for you in the 'Knights' folder. We've received the same training!"

"But Father hasn't lost his mind! He has a plan—"

"Every nut in Gotham has a plan!"

"Father is not a madman!" Damian drew his sword and stopped, while Grayson took a couple more steps forward before reluctantly halting. Even if they didn't like it, it was Damian's duty to say what needed to be said. "He's just... changed! He's still fighting crime! And he hasn't tried to murder any of us like Todd did!"

"Hey, I didn't paint my mouth big and red," Todd, clearly in the midst of conflict, spoke as if everything happening inside and outside the comms had nothing to do with him.

"Yeah, but you put a giant tomato on your head," Brown mocked.

"And a giant Robin suit with yellow tights," Drake added.

"Enough!" Damian's throat felt like being scraped by sandpaper. "How can you allow this? How can you be so indifferent? You just want to get rid of Father, don't you? You treat him like a criminal, a lunatic! I knew you all hated him! You never wanted—"

"Damian!" Grayson grabbed his hood with right hand and raised left hand towards him. Damian instinctively flinched, but Grayson didn't hit him. Instead, in that unexpected second, he ripped off the Robin badge from Damian's chest.

"It's Robin's duty to stop Batman from losing control," he said, with trembling hand holding the disk with the letter R in front of Damian. "If you can't fulfill your duty, then go home and stay with your zoo!"

Grayson hadn't—no, thinking back, since allowing Damian to replace Drake as Robin, Grayson had never indicated that he would dismiss Damian. He had often complained about being tired of Batman or scolded Damian for disobedience and grounded him, but he had never said he would end Damian's career as Robin. Damian reluctantly acknowledged the most important operating principles under Batman's leadership, but to be honest, he didn't particularly care how many scumbags his father had killed. However, Grayson was different; after the Joker's death, Grayson had not been himself. He had negated his partnership with Damian just because of Damian's reasonable confusion tactics (although accepted the apology, Damian doubt Grayson's sincerity for his refusal to be Batman), and now he was even revoking Damian's qualification.

"Don't be too harsh, Big D," Brown clicked her tongue. "Everyone's having a hard time."

"That's exactly why no one has the right to be more willful than anyone else!" Grayson snapped. "Do you know what B1209 means, Robin?"

"B1209 is the only ward from the ninth to the twelfth underground floors of Arkham, with no signal or network, all life support systems operate independently, separated to the outside world," Damian said gloomily, hating the feeling of trying to please Grayson—just because Grayson still called him Robin? "Also, December 9th is the date my grandparents were killed, and for some reason, you consider it the birthday of Batman."

Damian was dismissive; he didn't believe Batman was born from murder. The League of Assassins was full of murders, they only produced cowardice and corpses, no death had ever brought power, wisdom, courage, experience, or a heart of protection. Batman was born from years of training and battle, from the world's greatest human surpassing his own limits.

"More accurately, it's a starting point, and an eternal reminder," Grayson put Damian down. "We just need him to stop and think carefully about what he wants to do and to be. No one plans to lock Bruce up in Arkham forever; if anyone does, I'll be the first to oppose."

The last sentence was slightly emphasized, and Damian sensed a warning, perhaps Grayson wasn't sure if everyone's intentions were as he said.

"Listen, I let a guy who tried to kill me more than once out of Arkham, there's no reason to decide to lock up someone who saved me in there forever," Drake responded. "But if we don't quickly figure out what's wrong with Arkham, it might not exist after today."

"You know, I feel targeted, this should fall under the category of bullying," Todd snorted. "I'm going offline—"

"Keep the comms open," Drake interrupted him immediately.

"Your sense of humor is already better than Batman's, you know that?" Todd said impatiently. "And—fuck! Get down, you idiot—"

"Huntress will be at your position in two minutes, Red Hood!"

Grayson gasped, and even Damian squinted and looked back, but the block was clearly still without power, and the streets were jammed without traffic lights.

"Welcome back, Oracle!" Brown cheered like an idiot.

"Temporarily 'Agent B', Batgirl," Gordon replied. "I'm in the Batcave now, Alfred sent the Batmobile to pick me up. Also, Commissioner Gordon has notified the entire GCPD to be on duty and is recommending a state of emergency."

"He better hurry!" Todd panted. "The streets are a mess after the Penguin gang was decapitated—"

"I need someone to help get the reporters away here too!" Drake said nervously. "The surgery is over, they're arranging for a transfer, and I've already spotted at least two assassins in the crowd—"

"Black Mask has arrived at Arkham, still unconscious," Black Bat reported. "Also Scarecrow and Bane, the nurses aren't calling them by their original names—"

"Good news, Two-Face flipped to the good side today!" Catwoman chimed in. "Bad news, his men have different opinions!"

In what seemed like an instant, the public channel became a chaotic mess, and no one paid attention to Damian's doubts anymore. Even Damian felt like a clueless child. GOTHAM FIRST. Only this supreme directive had not been violated. It carried the imposing presence of Batman into Damian's mind, guiding Robin's actions.

"Let's go, Nightwing!" he said. "We need to protect Gotham! Whoever against!"

Grayson's lips tightened, he patted Damian's shoulder, and handed the Robin badge back to him.

44.

The ambulance carrying Bruce was heading towards Arkham, while Tim was forced to stay at the hospital to evacuate the crowd and prevent stampedes—fortunately, the assassins had only use tear gas. Most of the vigilantes were held back by the multi-point outbreak of gang wars. They had to protect Gotham's schools, hospitals, and public infrastructure before the curfew was imposed and the military intervened, minimizing civilian casualties. Given the chaotic state of the city, Director Sharp had ordered all defensive measures on the island to be raised to the highest level. After receiving Bruce Wayne, they would immediately initiate quarantine procedures, cutting off all contact between Arkham and the outside world.

Assessing the situation at Arkham was much more difficult than elsewhere. Here, malice and madness were the norm. Cassandra sensed a brewing murderous intent from a significant portion of the people, and she could roughly tell who was conspiring with whom. However, they might also just be planning the next riot, which had nothing to do with Bruce.

This was truly frustrating. Cassandra's reading ability had improved, but her speed was still below the average level, and reading beyond a certain number of words would make her dizzy and nauseous. She was assigned here because of her combat skills, but if it were someone else, they could have looked for clues through various written records instead of waiting for an incident to happen.

There was no time to waste on self-pity now. She was a capable vigilante with her own methods. After communicating with the trustworthy guard Aaron Cash, Cassandra began tracking Harleen Quinzel. After the incident where Bruce was kidnapped from the police station, Dick had sent Harley and Poison Ivy to Arkham together. However, within a week, Harley had successfully convinced her attending physician that her sanity had returned to normal after breaking free from the Joker's control. They even allowed her to move freely within the building in civilian clothes and with an electric ankle cuff, showcasing the treatment of a well-behaved positive case.

Harley was in a state of high excitement and focus, eagerly anticipating some kind of upheaval, almost as much as when she was following the Joker. Outwardly, "Dr. Quinzel" was very helpful. Whether it was the janitor replacing trash bags, the cafeteria staff pushing carts to deliver meals to restricted patients, or interns writing case reports or even theses, she actively offered her assistance. According to the reactions, she had been like this for a while. With her makeup washed off and her blonde hair tied up, Harley somehow looked similar to Barbara, easily winning trust. For example, the woman in front of her, Verity, practically worshipped her.

"Oh, really? Bruce Wayne is coming in today?" Harley widened her eyes—pretending to be surprised. "I thought they were still looking for him!"

Verity looked at her cautiously, clearly regretting having brought up the topic. "Um, I guess so, that's what I heard... He killed the Penguin, but he was also injured and captured."

"Aw, that's too bad." Harley patted Verity cheerfully. "Come on, don't be like that! He took down the Joker, setting me free! All I want now is for Gotham to get back to normal!"

These words were sincere, but they gave Cassandra an ominous premonition.

"That's great." Verity relaxed. "Uh, would you want to see him, Dr. Quinzel?"

"Of course, who wouldn't want to see Bruce Wayne?" Harley tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Since he's physically injured too, he'll definitely go to the medical station first! I suggest you ambush him there!"

"I don't want to ambush him!" Verity protested, but her face turned red. "And I have to follow Dr. Kessler on rounds after lunch."

"Don't worry, leave it to me! Dr. Kessler and Ivy both like me, they won't object, and I'll make the records look perfect for you!"

Rather than being infatuated with Bruce Wayne, Cassandra was more inclined to believe that Verity wanted to take photos to sell to the media. In any case, Harley had successfully lured her away from her post. As Harley had said, Dr. Kellerman, though somewhat critical of Verity's capricious behavior, agreed that allowing Harley to interact with Poison Ivy would help persuade her to cooperate with treatment. Muttering "just this once," she tacitly approved the substitution.

"B's ambulance is about to reach Arkham Bridge," Barbara continued to update.

"Harley and Ivy are up to something," Cassandra hid in the blind spot of two nurses, hearing Harley's humming drifting towards Ivy's ward. "Her movements become more purposeful; she definitely wants to do something with Ivy. I'm following."

"I'm here!" Tim's motorcycle came to a halt, the wind noise from the ride fading. "Cash is verifying the identities of the people in the vehicle—"

"Ouch!" Harley clutched her wrist, scolding loudly. "Rude little Bat! You hurt me!"

"What's that, Quinzel?" Dr. Kellerman snapped. "Are you still helping criminals?"

A few seeds fell to the ground. Cassandra had given Harley a nerve pinch. Ivy was still isolated in her cell, showing no intention of interfering as the vigilante placed the seeds in the waterproof layer of her belt.

"And you, you have no right to attack my patients like that!" Dr. Kellerman turned her anger on Cassandra. "Many people here have issues with violence! You could trigger them!"

"Under control," Cassandra reported to Barbara and Tim while quickly searching Harley, finding no more seeds.

"Powers is smoking in the monitoring room! Does he not know—he's on purpose!" Barbara shouted urgently. "The automatic fire suppression system is activating, be careful!"

"Are you listening to me?" Dr. Kellerman, oblivious, walked toward Cassandra, who had leaped up. "You're not the police! You have no—ah! What the hell?!"

The ceiling sprinklers sprayed dense streams of water, and Dr. Kellerman's curses quickly turned into screams—several thick vines burst through her pockets, coiling around her like green pythons. Stupid, so careless. Harley was just a decoy to draw attention; someone else had hidden the seeds in Dr. Kellerman's coat.

"No!"

Cassandra threw a batarang to cut the vines around Dr. Kellerman's neck, dodging several more vines' attempts to ensnare her, and pulled out herbicide. More vines took root in the building's cracks, swelling and bursting through the stone. The sound of walls collapsing and screaming filled the air.

"Arrogant humans," Poison Ivy stepped out of her ward gracefully, her hospital gown falling apart as leaves and vines embraced her body like children welcoming their mother. "You think violence can stop plants from growing? Now pay the price."

Chapter Text

45.

Bluebird barely cleared the bridge as the drawbridge fully raised behind Dick, officially isolating Arkham as an island. Damian the brat climbed onto Dick's shoulders just as the motorcycle reached its peak, practically using his older brother's head as a springboard. With the help of Robin's cape gliding function, he launched himself straight toward the second-floor window that had just been blown open by an ice spike.

"Are you all insane?" Cash shouted, standing beside furious medical staff and police officers. "Red Robin stole an ambulance! He came out of nowhere and kicked everyone—"

"Take these people to the bomb shelter!" Dick cut him off, hearing Damian apparently kick Mr. Freeze's helmet. "Then evacuate the medical staff and regular patients! Watch out for Powers—he's been bribed!"

"Again?" Cash groaned loudly. "I should really quit!"

"You tampered with the system during the last Arkham riot, didn't you? Once you're registered as admitted, the next phase of your plan kicks in," Tim's voice came through the comms, calm but firm. He had already disappeared from Dick's sight, speeding at least 90 miles per hour. "What are you trying to do?"

The vines that had burst through the west-side window were shrinking as Cass subdued Poison Ivy and fought off the psychos Ivy had released. Dick fired his grapple gun, pulling himself up to the third floor, where he kicked in a window and slammed Calendar Man in the back of the head.

"I know you can break free, but I suggest you don't move," Tim said, though it was unclear if Bruce responded (or if he even could). "We're currently taking a joyride around Arkham Island. This isn't the Batmobile, and at its current speed, if we hit even a single pebble, we're both dead."

Damn it, that little lunatic! Dick heard Damian yell, "Don't do anything stupid!" but before anyone could respond, a deliberately exaggerated clearing of the throat came through the PA system—oh no, it was Bruce.

"Oh, are we recording? Ahem... Hello, everyone!" Bruce's cheerful, Brucie-esque tone echoed across the island, sending a chill down Dick's spine. No, he wasn't thinking of the Joker.

"I'm heading to the broadcast room!" Damian shouted as he ran. "Red Robin! Who the hell is in that car?"

"Biometrics match Bruce!" Tim yelled back. "Unless the scanner's broken! I can't check right now!"

"I'm sure everyone's wide awake now! Feeling a little confused, aren't we? Some of you still don't know why you're here, right?" Bruce's voice continued. "Surprise! You've all been selected to participate in the first-ever Arkham Hunt! All of you!"

"Oh no," Dick and Barbara muttered in unison. He tied up Calendar Man and then punched out a regular patient who was wildly swinging a broken pipe.

"The prey for this event—is me! Bruce Wayne!"

"The hallway's blocked! I'm—ah!" Damian hissed like an angry cat, clearly having triggered a trap. "I'll blow it open!"

"As for the prize, it's your favorite: the Bat—man! My funded vigilante hasn't been seen for days. Aren't you all curious where he is?" Bruce let out a string of laughter. "Look how nervous his little sidekicks are—I'll take the first person who catches me to the Batcave! Batman will be served like a feast—"

"It's a recording!" Damian finally managed to shut off the broadcast. To Dick's relief, he then began following their training, urging everyone who could still move to head to the bomb shelter for safety.

Dick sprinted toward the window closest to Tim, directing a few panicked nurses to avoid the collapsed emergency passage. The icy water dripping from the ceiling soaked him as he moved. Barbara and Alfred were in the Batcave, not to mention Wayne Manor was right above it—their entire secret...

"Seriously?" Tim's voice came through the comms, actually joking. "You called us your little sidekicks in front of all of Gotham's crazies?"

"Keep heading northeast, Red Robin!" Barbara instructed. "I've sent you the coordinates. The Bat-sub is waiting at the dock to pick you up!"

"No need to worry too much about us, children," Alfred said calmly.

"Well, I just injected you with a sedative, so before you pass out again, I might as well ask," Tim said, seemingly unaware that the vehicle he was driving had just become the target of every lunatic on the island. "You called Batman a 'vigilante funded by you.' Does that mean you just want them to kill each other instead—"

Dick felt a slight tremor and a loud boom from inside the building. He leapt out the window and saw, mid-air, that the road usually used for supplies had been severed by a massive hole. One side of the hole had damaged the greenbelt, while the other extended over the sea. Bane stood on the shore, waiting.

"Everyone's fine! Good thing I slowed down before Bane came crashing down," Tim coughed, accompanied by the sound of swimming. "Bruce is already sedated. I wanted to use the diving equipment, but his injuries can't be submerged for too long."

"Move! I'll handle this!" Dick threw two Batarangs at Bane's venom tubes. The latter dodged with agility that belied his size—this wasn't going to be easy. "Enemies are closing in!"

Blockbuster smashed through a nearby wall, roaring as he charged out of the hole he'd created. However, Cass was right behind him, flitting around him as lightly as a real bat, then successfully landed a kick to his jaw, knocking him down. As an older brother, maybe he shouldn't have, but the moment Cass arrived at Dick's side, standing back-to-back with him, Dick felt a lot more at ease.

"Red Robin, your hero's submarine is here!" Stephanie cut into the Arkham comms channel. "Aren't you moving, sweetheart?"

For a moment, all Dick could hear was the sound of fighting from all directions, and his stomach sank like a stone. Fortunately, before his worst fears could fully form, Tim's voice came through: "Sorry, guys..."

"Don't apologize! No one stands a chance against B alone!" Stephanie immediately said. "How are you? Drugged?"

"I'm fine. I injected the antidote too. I'll be okay in a bit," Tim slurred slightly. "Uh, the tracker I put on... well, it's probably tossed."

"It's fine. Now the hunters and the prey are all mixed together, as usual," Dick said, using his grapple gun's rope to trip Bane. Cass yanked out the venom tubes, and Bane's mountainous muscles began to shrink.

"The only little problem is figuring out who's the hunter and who's the prey, right?" Stephanie said.

46.

At any rate, the part about piloting the Bat-helicopter was pretty good. There were two cracks on the rooftop, but no immediate danger. Jason jumped out of the helicopter, holding the box of antidotes.

After the hunting game at Arkham began, the League of Assassins seemed to withdraw from Gotham's chaos. While street conflicts were frequent, most of the super-criminals were either in Arkham or the morgue. The rest were mostly mundane kidnappings and shootings, and both the vigilantes and the paid police officers were gradually catching their breath. On another front, Scarecrow's fear toxin had been confiscated (though everyone knew where it ended up), but he had concocted a makeshift version using Arkham's labs. Tim analyzed blood samples from several victims and sent the data to the Batcave, where Barbara and Alfred formulated an antidote and decided to send Jason on the delivery run. So, welcome home.

Truthfully, Jason had never actually seen the Joker in Arkham (otherwise, the ass wouldn't have lived this long), but the entire place felt like the Joker's spirit was haunting the walls, making Jason's nerves raw and his skin crawl. In this state, the voice of the Mad Hatter in his head was especially annoying, as if someone had convinced the guy who thought he lived in a fairy tale that his Alice was hidden in the Batcave, prompting him to turn every living thing in the building into a tentacle trying to grab the key.

"Highly suspect Harley Quinn," Barbara said. "Not sure when Bruce made contact with her, but he clearly convinced her to be an agent at Arkham, and she, in turn, convinced a group of people to help Bruce smuggle things onto the island that shouldn't be there."

Oh no, Jason nearly gave in to the impulse to laugh. "Does this script sound familiar?"

"It's different," Cass interjected, sounding unusually tired. "She wants to make everything normal."

"Is that really so different? Right now, she's like a deranged nurse from a horror movie, jabbing needles into anything that moves." A few bullets hit something hard near Stephanie, and her voice rose slightly hysterically. "Her approach seems to be eliminating anything related to madness. On our way to the bomb shelter, we even stepped on three dead guinea pigs!"

"Disgusting acts of cruelty!" Damian took a moment to condemn.

Jason paused his crawl: in the hallway below, Harley was cheerfully waving a syringe, searching for her next target. She was wearing a white lab coat she'd presumably stripped off someone, her wrist showing clear signs of having broken free from restraints, a bruise on her left cheek, and both pockets stuffed with syringes. Damn it, rubber bullets couldn't penetrate the ventilation ducts, and he couldn't afford to waste too much time. Jason could only lower his voice to report her position, wait for her to move out of earshot, and then continue forward.

Tim had gone to support Dick in taking down the Mad Hatter (Jason hoped they hit him hard enough), Damian was dealing with the frenzied victims of the toxin, and Stephanie was outside the bomb shelter, fighting Black Mask alone. And she'd run out of Batarangs—it was like some kind of hellish joke—but she seemed to be holding her own.

"You missed your chance for a grand entrance, Red Hood," Stephanie said, crouching next to the unconscious Black Mask, out of breath and looking battered.

"Not bad," Jason patted his holster. "Want a few shots? You can pretend they're live rounds."

"Uh, tempting, but no," Stephanie grabbed his arm to pull herself up, watching as he jabbed a tranquilizer dart into Black Mask's neck to prevent any surprises. "Let's hurry and save some limbs from Damian."

"Tch, I'm not as incompetent as you lot!" Damian sneered.

The group attacking Damian was a mixed bag: besides those poisoned and panicked, there were also those simply panicked, as well as those who refused to trust a child and wanted to go upstairs to lower the drawbridge and escape. Damian was vicious, but he wasn't a six-foot-tall, 200-pound mob boss who actually kills. So, once Jason showed up with his gun, the situation was quickly brought under control. The detox part was left to the two of them, while Jason re-investigated the scene. The staff and patients not participating in the hunting game should all be here, along with some essential medical equipment. The bomb shelter was built to nuclear standards, but its internal structure wasn't complicated, with few places to hide.

"If Black Mask had actually come in to search, he would've found that the priceless prey wasn't here at all," Stephanie guessed what he was looking for. "But we suspect he wouldn't have left willingly."

"Has anyone seen Bruce Wayne since the game started?" Jason asked.

"No," Damian was clearly in a foul mood. "But we haven't had much time to search thoroughly either."

"If they catch Wayne, will the game end?" someone reckless piped up from a corner.

"If you dare help them, your life will end!" Damian snapped.

"Why should we have to go through this?" another voice, tearful, cried out. "What did we do wrong? This is all your game! Let us go!"

"Before you provoke the only person who can keep you alive, maybe you didn't do anything wrong," Jason said coldly. "But who knows? You chose to believe Arkham's recruitment ads."

"We can lock down the bomb shelter, leave them here. Someone will rescue them after this is over," Damian stood up, crossing his arms. "These idiots aren't worth wasting so much time on."

Protests immediately filled the space, and Jason had to fire a shot into the air to hear Alfred's instructions over the comms. But Alfred was cut off by a sharp burst of static, and Barbara warned that someone had hacked the system. When Bruce's voice came through, Jason wasn't surprised at all.

"Ten," Bruce's tone was relaxed, though he sounded weak—which only made his calm more unsettling. He didn't sound like the Joker, but also didn't like the gravelly-voiced Batman or the charmingly flippant Brucie. Instead, he sounded more like the exhausted father from everyone's memories, the one who had just finished a tough night, slept for three hours, and was forced to sit at the breakfast table by the butler.

"Nine."

"Everyone to the roof! Helicopter!" Jason shouted. "Now! Run!"

"Eight."

"What are you doing, Father?" Damian charged toward the door, only to be yanked back by Jason grabbing his cape. "Let me go!"

"Seven."

"What's happening?" "Did you hear that?" The crowd in the bomb shelter began to stir.

"Six."

"Stop, Bruce!" Dick pleaded. "Whatever you're planning!"

"Five."

"Don't stop, Dick!" Tim yelled, sounding almost frantic. "I'll knock you out if I have to!"

"Four."

"Where are you? Are you still on the island?" Barbara asked.

"Three."

"Close the doors! Close them!" Stephanie tripped two disoriented nurses who were also trying to flee.

"Two."

"On the helicopter," Cass said.

"One."

Chapter Text

47.

Everyone gathered in the Batcave, with no signs that its location had been compromised.

"Look on the bright side, Red, you did predict his plan," Jason said. "Bruce Wayne’s 'dead,' and Arkham is gone."

"To be precise, it's just subsided. That was the design intent. The main structure of the ground buildings wasn't severely damaged, but there were partial collapses due to the destruction caused by the game," Tim explained. "The final measure of B1209—if Batman's sanity is deemed irreversibly lost and he poses a severe threat to the outside world—is to bury him forever beneath Arkham."

"Because GOTHAM FIRST," Cass said.

"Father isn't dead either. The DNA from the body found in the second-floor ruins doesn't match Father's," Damian added.

"But it does match the DNA collected by the police for Bruce Wayne. Records show that due to an operational error, the first sample was contaminated, and a second sample was taken, though the officer in question doesn't remember it," Barbara said. "We can't find the police DNA records in our system."

"For Talia, finding a body with similar physical characteristics and no criminal record wouldn't be hard, especially since it was basically crushed into pulp by several floors of building materials, making dental records impossible to recover," Stephanie said. "Uh, similar to Black Mask's condition outside the bomb shelter."

"In any case, the official story is that Bruce Wayne accidentally died in a game he orchestrated after going mad, and Arkham has entered a semi-permanent shutdown," Alfred said. "Fortunately, there were no casualties among the regular staff and patients, and the surviving game participants will be temporarily under the supervision of the Gotham Police after treatment."

"When the countdown started, I really thought we were done for," Dick said. "He gathered all the super-criminals in Arkham to send them to hell in one go."

48.

From a god's-eye view, that's exactly what happened. By the time the explosion occurred, most of the super-criminals had already been incapacitated due to infighting or intervention by the vigilantes. If the explosion had been strong enough, their chances of escape would have been slim.

"Bruce knew every detail of B1209. He wouldn't have expected that explosion to cause much harm to the people inside the ground buildings," Barbara said. "Maybe he gave up after assessing the feasibility. Even for Bruce, planning an explosion powerful enough to sink Arkham into the sea without us noticing would have been extremely difficult."

"At least on the date he chose, he definitely didn't have enough time," Tim said. "If that's the case, why did he go out of his way to gather the super-criminals? There won't be a second chance to take them all out at once."

"Maybe he couldn't figure out a way to achieve his goal without sacrificing any of us," Dick said. "He left us just enough time for the helicopter to take off. If the explosion had been any stronger, we would have crashed. But if he'd given us more time, we would have tried to save the other lunatics—he knew what he'd taught us to be."

"Actually, if his goal was what he told Harley, then the vigilantes should have been included in the purge, right?" Jason said. "I think he just didn't want you—or us, whatever—to be accomplices to murder."

"Fair point, I'm already feeling uneasy," Stephanie said. "I definitely don't sympathize with Black Mask, but... whatever, I'll get over it."

"It's like a drill," Cass said. "Showing everyone what he's capable of."

"Another possible reason is that Gotham still needs the gangs, for now," Alfred said. "His goal was to eliminate the super-criminals who had gone too far while warning the rest."

"We'll never know the real answer," Damian said. "Unless we catch him."

49.

The day after Gotham lifted its state of emergency, Damian Wayne's biological mother left the "city of terror," instructing her lawyers to withdraw all her legal claims. Shortly after, the *Gotham Gazette* received materials stamped with embassy seals and notarized documents, proving that the identity she had used was fake—the royal family she claimed to belong to had no such member.

The controversy this sparked was quickly forgotten, and it didn't even make the front page, as alongside Talia's fake identity, a trove of materials exposing corruption, dereliction of duty, and collusion with criminal organizations among Gotham's upper echelons was also released. Some were posted on social media platforms, while others were sent via email to major Gotham newspapers. The city government held several press conferences to clarify that the reporting materials were pure rumors and malicious fabrications, but in the following months, the near-complete overhaul of Gotham's bureaucratic system was undeniable. Police Commissioner James Gordon was one of the few high-ranking officials unaffected, claiming he was "full of confidence" in Gotham's new leadership.

For the common folk, Red Hood indeed seemed like a more reliable authority. After establishing his position, he presided over the redivision of territories and the establishment of new rules in the underworld, prohibiting gang conflicts from spilling over into civilian lives, protecting the safety of sex workers, and cracking down hard on crimes involving children. If you were lucky, he might even teach rookie criminals how to properly kidnap a wealthy person—say, a random member of the Wayne family.

Speaking of the Wayne family, none of them commented on Talia's actions. The inheritance process went smoothly, and Damian's custody was quickly settled. Cassandra announced that she would complete her studies in Hong Kong but would continue to support Gotham's reconstruction and development, and she looked forward to returning often to see the city's new changes. Richard, Timothy, and Damian all pledged that Wayne Enterprises would remain rooted in Gotham, continuing to honor their grandfather and father's legacy by helping the city's people. Damian returned to school, though he claimed he was by no means voluntarily enduring the "stale and shallow education system."

On the surface, that was the case. Privately, the media naturally couldn't know that Damian had received an anonymous email after his mother's departure. It briefly informed him that she was not with his father, that they had fought upon meeting, injuring each other, and that Bruce had returned the Lazarus water to her before leaving. If they met again, it would be when the League of Assassins overstepped once more, and Bruce made her and her father pay for it—at least, that's what she claimed Bruce had said.

"She also told me to take care of myself," Damian said with unexpected calmness when faced with his siblings' concern. "TT. Unnecessary."

On December 9th of this year, despite the absence of Bruce Wayne, the crowd visiting the Wayne family cemetery was unusually large, including some who rarely appeared in the public eye. Kate Kane expressed deep regret over her cousin's fate, Stephanie Brown, the daughter of the Cluemaster, came to thank Wayne for paying her college tuition, and Commissioner Gordon and his daughter Barbara revealed that after Barbara was disabled by the Joker, Bruce Wayne had offered her much encouragement during her rehabilitation. A tall, red-haired young man with a streak of white in his hair refused interviews, with rumors suggesting he bore a striking resemblance to Wayne's deceased second foster son.

Perhaps inspired by them, citizens began spontaneously placing flowers at the cemetery or Crime Alley, sharing stories of how they had directly or indirectly received help from Wayne Enterprises, and how they had been harmed by the criminals Bruce Wayne had taken down. Bruce Wayne had always presented himself as dissolute,self-centered, and lost in pleasure. Without deliberate digging, it was hard to believe how much he had improved this city of sin—whether as his true self or his insane self.

"I sincerely wish I could tell everyone what my son has done for Gotham. Maybe one day I will," said Alfred Pennyworth, the butler. As everyone knew, after Thomas and Martha Wayne's deaths, eight-year-old Bruce had been raised by him.

"We never needed those spandex freaks!" some shouted. "We needed Bruce Wayne! He was the best of Gotham!"

Whether Bruce could hear their voices or not, this time Gotham indeed seemed to be heading toward the light. But such starting points had been laid before Gotham countless times, almost as many as the times the city had teetered on the brink of destruction, so it was understandable that most normal people adopted a wait-and-see attitude—time would tell.

50.

"Clark said he couldn't hear Bruce's heartbeat, but Bruce figured out how to block his hearing years ago," Dick said, looking as deflated as the cereal floating in his bowl of milk. "I told him the truth, and he threw a super-sized tantrum. I don't think I'm his favorite Robin anymore."

"Don't worry, people still suspect you're Batman and Superman's secret love child," Tim said absentmindedly.

"Master Timothy, I will confiscate your computer," Alfred tapped the table, and Tim quickly closed his laptop, sliding it onto his lap.

"Whatever the alien says," Damian said, holding Alfred the cat's head as he cleaned its ears. "Father is definitely alive, and he will definitely return to Gotham."

"No one doubts that, D," Dick bent under the table to beckon Titus, the Great Dane, who trotted over from Damian's side to him. "I just wish we had more concrete news."

"Thinking that he might show up when I mess up, I don't know if I should feel comforted or terrified," Tim stirred his salad with a fork, eyeing the coffee pot longingly.

"Hey! Guess who just finished her last exam yesterday?" Stephanie appeared at the kitchen doorway, and Tim let out a big sigh. "That's right! Which Batman is making his debut tonight?"

"Steph, you can't be serious—"

"Let me think—the one with the best butt?"

"Wrong!" Dick grinned.

"You guys—"

"The one with the shiniest jacket?"

"Did someone just talk trash about me?" Jason squeezed past Stephanie into the kitchen, wearing his brand-new motorcycle jacket.

"Jason! Why are you—"

"Oh, I remember now!" Stephanie raised her hand dramatically and pointed at Tim. "It's you! Ta-da, our dearest little Timmy! Tonight, we'll witness his debut!"

Tim rolled his eyes. "The first thing Batman's doing tonight is kicking you out."

"Wait, technically, I already had Timmy's debut," Jason said with a wicked grin. "I was a bit rough, left him lying there—"

"There's a minor here!" Tim protested loudly.

"According to American ratings, I've been NC-17 since I was a toddler," Damian pointed out. He released Alfred the cat, who landed on the floor and shook its fur indignantly.

"Uh, I think someone just said something really disturbing," Stephanie said.

When Cass followed Barbara's wheelchair into the dining room, Tim's face had already taken on the expression of someone facing a dire threat.

"Damn, isn't this a bit too formal?" Tim looked around at his family. "I haven't decided yet, maybe I shouldn't..."

"We all agreed to return Nightwing to Blüdhaven, and Officer Grayson should return to his post," Barbara smiled, letting Dick push her wheelchair. "It's okay, Tim. Just be yourself."

"I can still take a break occasionally," Dick leaned down to kiss Barbara's cheek. "And Jason will definitely handle the toughest problems during his shifts. He's considerate."

"TT. I don't see why you're so nervous," Damian said. "Whether it's you, Grayson, or Todd, you're all just temporary placeholders until I take over."

"You mean until you grow taller than three puddings," Jason snickered, deftly dodging the knife Damian threw at him.

"Please use utensils for their intended purpose, Master Damian!" Alfred said disapprovingly.

"I'll grow taller than you!" Damian roared, though he didn't dare jump onto the chair. "I have the best genetic combination!"

Amid the noise, Cass smiled and gave Tim a thumbs-up, then made a fist-pumping gesture. Tim shook his head and finally laughed.

Who knows? Tonight might be peaceful, or the Bat-Signal might light up again. And when its beam pierces the night sky, the shadow-cloaked guardian will emerge, giving everything he can offer. This is one of the few things you can be certain about when it comes to Gotham's future.

0.

What's the reward for being Batman?

Being Batman.

Then what's the punishment for a powerless Batman?