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It was like any other day in the Wayne household.
The birds were not chirping, the sky was full of fog, and there was probably a mugging going on somewhere downtown.
In other words — perfectly ordinary.
Most of the city’s criminals were safely locked in Arkham, even that sadistic clown.
That was, of course, until Damian Wayne–al Ghul decided he missed his little brother.
It had been nearly three months since his unfortunate and prolonged visit to his broke father. The man only had one servant for four people. One.
Back home, Damian had three personal attendants just for getting dressed — and that was before breakfast. He wasn’t even going to start on the staff for meal service.
Truly, it was abysmal how the poor lived. But alas, one cannot choose who one’s father is. Nor, apparently, who that father decides to pick up off the streets and adopt.
Maybe he should call Mother. He still couldn’t understand how Grayson could tolerate this level of poverty.
Still, as the unfortunate blood son, it seemed Father’s “lifestyle” was something he must… endure.
“Father, I have a request,” Damian said, approaching the man who was just about to leave for a ‘meeting.’
At least Father had some servants at his company. Though, really, what kind of man works for a living?
“What is it, Damian? I need to get to work,” Bruce replied.
How tragic. His father truly had to work. Slumming it out with common degenerates. “I miss my little brother. I want to go and see him.”
Bruce Wayne had faced gods, monsters, and Gotham’s worst — but nothing could have prepared him for that sentence coming from his ten-year-old son.
Before he could even speak, Dick Grayson — as usual — appeared out of nowhere. Both men nearly tripped over each other demanding Damian repeat himself.
Honestly. Were they deaf?
“I said,” Damian repeated patiently, “I miss my little brother. We share parents, and I have missed his third birthday.”
Bruce froze.
Little brother? Three? Share parents?
Was he having a heart attack?
“Damian, you have a little brother?” Dick asked, blinking rapidly.
Damian sighed. “Must I repeat myself a third time? Yes. He’s three. And he knows about you both. He doesn’t really like you. In fact…” Damian tilted his head thoughtfully. “I would say he despises you.”
Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s Dark Knight, World’s Greatest Detective — fainted.
Flat out cold.
Dick caught him before his head hit the floor, swearing loudly.
The commotion drew Superman, who arrived just in time to find the world’s most intimidating man unconscious on the carpet, while his son stood over him with mild disappointment.
“Old age,” Damian muttered. “Truly, poverty does terrible things to one’s constitution.”
And as everyone rushed to tend to Bruce, Damian quietly slipped out. He had a baby brother to visit.
Meanwhile, Somewhere Far Away…
A man — broad-shouldered, scarred, and radiating lethal calm — lounged in a cracked leather chair.
Every inch of him looked dangerous: combat boots kicked up on the table, holsters strapped to his thighs, twin pistols glinting under dim light, a knife tucked casually against his chest.
And yet, despite the miniature armory strapped to his body… he was peacefully reading a book.
He turned a page, brow furrowing slightly as if the plot had taken an unexpected turn. Then, absently, he scratched his ear.
A faint shiver crawled down his spine. He frowned. “…Someone’s talking about me,” Jason Todd muttered under his breath, before shrugging. The book was getting good. Whoever it was could wait.
He leaned back, flipping another page, utterly unaware that a private jet carrying one determined ten-year-old was already en route — on a mission to visit his “three-year-old baby brother.”
And somewhere in Gotham, Bruce Wayne sneezed, passed out again, and Dick Grayson screamed into a pillow.