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“So this… woman?…Thing? Won’t let anyone near it that… hasn’t lost their virginity?” Tim had a brow raised as he spoke, clearly unconvinced. “Why do you even know that?”
“As I said earlier, we just need to keep her contained until Zatanna can get here,” Father replied, his voice even and with certainty. He didn’t seem to take as much issue as other members of their troupe. “She contacted me to say that the spirit was accidentally sent here to Gotham by some apprentice of hers.”
Dick leaned against the countertop, “Alright. And does this ghost have a name or anything? Any leads on why it might be so… aggressive?”
Damian observed their conversation with a careful disdain. He rubbed at his arm subconsciously as they spoke, unnerved for some inexplicable reason.
“Zatanna didn’t go in depth. She just said it would be coming and to try to make it stay in one place for the next few hours while she manages the ‘situation’,” Father’s voice was tainted with annoyance at the word, “that got us into this.”
“And you—accepted that?” Steph asked with as much disbelief as Tim had displayed earlier.
Father frowned. “I wouldn’t say I had a choice. She didn’t leave a lot of room for questioning.”
“Where is it? Is it deadly or something?” Jason piped up, stretching out his muscles.
“It will attack you if you’ve had sexual relations, apparently. Since it just arrived, I’ve yet to test that theory.” Father said this steadily, as snickering echoed through the room.
Jason stared at Damian, his brows raised as he spoke to Father. “I don’t think it would like you much.”
Steph and Tim laughed, but Damian still couldn’t rid himself of the pit continuing to form in his stomach. It clawed at him from the inside, daring him to fight it. He ignored it all the same, wishing he were anywhere else, breathing anywhere else.
Because he is well aware of how this will play out.
“So you know its location?” Tim asked, already glancing toward the locker rooms, clearly wanting to change into his suit. Patrol would begin soon enough, especially with some magical entity loose. “We can stake out the area.”
“Zatanna sent me the place; it’s a warehouse in the center of the city. We just need to ensure it doesn’t leave before she gets here. She sent me a ward that should calm it if we can get it on.”
Dick shifted where he stood, a slight crease to his forehead that wasn’t commonly there. Damian stared at the floor, hoping for anything to prevent the sort of shame that may soon be realized.
“… I don’t think it would let many of us come near it,” Tim said with a pointed look at Damian. He had never despised his brother so much till that moment as his gaze bored into Damian’s own.
“Yes,” Father said, pausing to follow Tim’s stare. The whole room had turned its attention to Damian’s way, and he felt his cheeks grow hotter as each second passed.
“Damian…” Tim began, and he knew where this was going and how incapable he was of rebuking the request. There was no way for him to admit his incapability without admitting his most shameful mistake.
“You’re going in, kid,” Jason said with a wide grin, as if this were some amusing situation. “No one else can do it.”
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. No one’s forcing you.” Dick’s voice was soft, and it should’ve been placating. But there was still the continued assumption that Damian would be able to approach the spirit in the first place. That he met the requirements.
“But it would really help out!” Steph cut in. “I’ll have your back. But like— kind of from a distance, probably. So I’ll have your… I’ll be there.”
“I…” He bit his tongue. Expectant gazes watched him all around the room. He was well aware he could say no. He had that power now; he wasn’t back there with him. But it didn’t feel like it at all, not with how pathetic he’d be for denying their simple request. One that he should be able to
fulfill.
Damian gave a curt nod.
“Jesus, get any redder and you’ll look like the Flash,” Jason laughed as he clapped a hand on Damian’s back. It was meant to be a thankful gesture, but it was all he could do to prevent himself from flinching at the touch.
“Everyone, we will leave in ten minutes,” Father curtly said while stepping toward the computer, clearly aiming to find any information on the spirit before they left. They all dispersed, going off to prepare. Damian let his arms wrap around his chest, a comforting action he hadn’t done in many years.
“Hey, Dami.” Dick placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, as if he were glass. “You don’t have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable. It’s okay if you don’t want to do it. No one will be upset.”
He was lying out of his teeth.
“I’m fine, Richard.” Damian scoffed. “I’m not a child. I know what sex is.”
“I’m just saying. This whole thing isn’t your responsibility.”
But it surely felt like that. He nodded once more, and his brother finally slipped away, heading toward the locker room. Damian slowly followed suit, trying to convince himself he could find a way to get out of this. To prevent them from ever knowing the truth of his past and his wrongs.
It wasn’t a memory Damian preferred to dwell on.
He saw it in his dreams, of course, intertwined with other, more unpleasant memories of the League. Memories of training, of running until his soles wet the hard rock under him, and burns painted his back in maroon patches. Memories of cold, of ice tearing at his flesh as he scaled rocky cliff faces. Memories that left scarring on his skin, easily observable to the viewer.
The first time he’d removed his shirt in front of his family, they had hissed as they observed the scars etched like canyons into his back. He had been nearly proud of their reaction. Much too human to recognize the worth in each scar, the struggle and triumph that had resulted from each strike.
He was mottled, and caverned, and not afraid.
Of nearly everything, that was.
Because for all his pain, it had never been the blood that kept him up at night. Nor the screams of his victims, their terror and tears.
It was a man who was long dead.
Azan simply stared down at Damian as he looked up at him, back against the dirt training ground. His grandfather preferred to keep things traditional, as he thought it was the only way for Damian to learn. Being hurt was just a part of training. It was as expected as the sun above him.
“Terrible,” the man spat out, staring down at him with utter loathing. “A stray dog could’ve landed that hit.”
“I will do better next time,” Damian replied, pushing himself up as he dusted his pants and shirt. It was in doing this that he didn’t see the fist coming as it slammed into his side. He was only nine and still had much to learn.
“Terrible,” Azan repeated, shaking his head as Damian tried not to wheeze before him. “Your enemy would have killed you ten times over. Pathetic."
Damian set his jaw, not letting his anger wash over his face. He held himself upright once more, as showing weakness would only garner more pain. But it was hard to stay stoic as the man circled him in much the same way as a wolf might, a glint in his eyes that Damian had never seen before.
The man tended to watch him more thoroughly than all his other tutors. It was this trait that made him so adept at combat, earning his grandfather's approval in this way. But Damian did not enjoy the man’s stare. It lingered too long and, for some reason, made his stomach twist into tight knots.
Azan’s face was in its usual hard expression. He seemed to like degrading Damian as much as he could, gleeful as he struck him with whips and even his own fists on occasion. Damian was expected to go along with these punishments. It would be much more shameful for him to resist, as it would signal he wasn’t willing to change what needed to be improved.
“Come,” Azan beckoned him, and Damian obliged wearily, stepping forward until he was right before him. The man trailed a finger along his jaw, Damian’s spine tingling as Azan only smiled wider. “You look like your mother more and more every day.”
He frowned at this, wincing as a hand wandered to his side, rubbing against the forming bruise. His touch felt hot on Damian’s skin, and he had to stop himself from flinching away.
Azan stared at him like he was prized cattle — a look he only utilized before punishing Damian. He stood straight, ignoring Azan as he lazily stroked his side.
“Follow me,” he said, beckoning Damian as he stepped back, his hand dropping. He followed dutifully, knowing all too well what would occur if he attempted to disregard his orders. Azan had authority over Damian when it came to punishments and training, a responsibility gifted to no one else — barring Mother and Grandfather, of course. Obeying was just another task.
They made their way down a long hallway. It seemed to lead toward Azan's quarters. Damian was curious about what sort of thing Azan might be holding in there. Perhaps a new rod he’d been itching to test on Damian’s battered body. There was a plethora of increasingly horrific options spiraling in his imagination as Azan finally stood at a large wooden door. Damian figured it must surely be soundproof with how thick the concrete walls seemed to be.
Azan stepped inside, and Damian followed diligently, holding his head down in shame.
“Sit there,” Azan ordered, pointing toward the edge of his bed. Damian sat down carefully, growing increasingly uncomfortable as Azan rifled through his drawers.
“We’re going to work on some… training today. Torture training. If you can’t endure this, then, well,” Azan laughed quietly, “I suppose you won’t live up to your name.”
Azan was loyal above all else; Grandfather wouldn’t place faith in those undeserving of it. Neither would Damian, and so he let himself be pliant though his mind protested.
The next minutes dragged on, the world humming and dancing before him. That night would haunt him in dreams forever. He could only remember endless hands, the scent of dust and war, and a scorching pain as he was torn to shreds and fixed and broken again and again and again.
Azan’s death was a quiet affair, personally administered by Grandfather, as was the execution of the servants who had tended to Damian after. Grandfather had stared down at him with a flat expression, ordering him to never speak of this day. He had flushed in shame, too pathetic to do anything but nod.
He thought Grandfather looked nearly regretful, his face hidden partially by the shadows of the room. Damian didn’t know what to think of this.
Only he and Grandfather knew what had happened. He was grateful for this gift; it meant he could continue on the course long ago charted. Damian was not permitted to dwell on it. This was for the best; there was no reason to reminisce on the past, and he instead would merely charge forth with all his might.
If only his dreams understood this, too, but he at least could keep those to himself. If he lost his temper when people neared his side, this was excused by his general dislike of touch. He was not damaged, and this sensation would dissipate soon enough.
Or at least he had hoped that would be the case. Because it seemed such memories were harder to ignore than he would’ve suspected, even years later.
He’d been running from his past for a long time. He just wished he could finally rest.
The warehouse was nothing out of the ordinary. Not so large or small, and apparently had already been fully emptied. It was set for demolition in the coming weeks, and Damian just hoped they wouldn’t expedite that process.
“You look kinda… sick.” Tim eyed him, a questioning expression on his face. “Are you okay? We’re not gonna let it attack you.”
Damian glared at him. “I’m not sick.”
He ignored the sentence tacked onto the end of Tim’s irritating statement. There were no doubts in his mind that this—spirit? Demon?—would be enraged by his presence. It wouldn’t be the first.
This time was different, however.
“Sure.” Tim turned to look down at the warehouse. They were perched on top of a building, the thrum of the heating system a steady thundering in the background. Damian clutched the ward tightly in his hand. It was almost like a necklace, with a thick rope and a metal charm fastened to the front. It didn’t look like much, but if Zatanna had sent it, he had faith in its abilities.
“Is everyone in position?” Father’s voice crackled over the comm. “Robin. Do you remember the plan?”
“Affirmative. I’ll enter the warehouse and find the spirit, relaying the location back to you all.” He parroted off the lines like they were from a script. “Then, I’ll attempt to subdue it with the ward from Zatanna.”
“And?” Dick prompted in an irritating tone.
Damian sighed. “And if I’m unable to, or it will cause me any harm to attempt to, I’ll… fall back so we can regroup.”
“Ten bucks he doesn’t do that.” Jason piped up.
“How about fifty?” Steph replied, and Damian wished he could pummel them both. There was a certain tension in his muscles that only seemed to be increasing.
“Shut up—”
“Enough.” Father cut in, silencing Damian before he could make a full retort. “We are going ahead with the plan. Robin,” he paused, his voice becoming softer, “keep us updated. It shouldn’t react to you if what Zatanna said was true. And… be safe. Understood?”
“Yes,” he jumped down from the ledge, ditching Tim. There was an entrance below that he grappled down to. He could feel his family’s eyes following him, and he let out a quiet breath as he pushed open the door carefully.
The hallway was barely illuminated by pulsating orange lights. He crept silently through, keeping close to the walls and shadows. The scent of wood and iron permeated the air. It was cold, but nothing he couldn’t handle, especially with the aid of his suit. Still, he had an uncanny urge to shiver while crouched low to the floor as he neared the imposing metal door leading to the hangar.
“I’m nearing the main room,” he whispered into his comm as he peered out from his hiding place, barely concealing a quiet gasp at what he saw.
A woman sat in the middle of the floor, illuminated by a beam of moonlight that had managed to creep in through a large window. She was completely still, seemingly unaware of her surroundings. Her body was the color of a Morning Glory flower, vaguely translucent if he squinted. Her hair cascaded down her back in a wave-like manner.
She really did look like a ghost.
“Have you found anything?” Tim’s voice came in, and Damian nearly jumped at the sound. He glanced at the spirit again, but she hadn’t even twitched.
“She’s sitting. She hasn’t moved yet.”
“What does it look like?” Father asked.
“I can’t see her face, but she’s a light blue color with long hair. She seems to be human-sized.” He tensed. “I’m going to approach.”
“Be careful. If she moves, I want you out. Understand?”
“Yes.” He lied.
The ward was wrapped around his arm. He took a tentative step forward, holding his breath. She didn’t so much as stir, but he remained wary, unsure if there was a radius for her abilities. If they could even be called that, he supposed she still counted as attaining powers nonetheless.
Damian continued his approach, each premeditated step quiet on the concrete floor. Her lack of response caused him to relax, if only slightly, and he began to hope that he could forget about everything. That this would fade into distant memory. Not like Azan’s voice and touch, burned into every inch of his mind, replaying over and over and—
The woman’s head snapped backward suddenly.
“Oh,” Damian let out a breath, momentarily staring up in dazed wonder as the spirit suddenly morphed. Her figure became less human, not quite monstrous, but formless. He understood in that moment why ghosts were so feared across cultures and generations.
He leapt backward, dodging her arm, which careened toward him with a whip-like snap. She hissed, baring glistening teeth that he didn’t think suited her previous look. His feet kept moving back, his eyes trained on her approaching form. It wasn’t long before he felt a wall behind him. He gripped the ward even tighter, aware that the imprint of the rope was likely dark on his arm.
“Robin, report, what’s going on–” Father’s voice was cut off by static. He sounded strained, and Damian imagined the rather imposing shadow the spirit cast had alarmed him. He wasn’t so focused on this, more disturbed by the reality that it seemed death was approaching, one slow drag at a time.
Her face came closer, enraged and obscured by wispy, blue smoke. She leaned down, and they must have been quite a sight, as she dwarfed him in size easily. His breath quickened as her eyes caught his. She seemed to take him in as she let out an inhuman growl, her stare darting wildly from his feet to the top of his head. He glanced at the ward again, trying to figure out a way to tie it onto her somehow without facing grievous injury.
It seemed he wouldn’t need to do this. Because just as he began to reach for the rope, she reeled back, hissing once more.
A wounded noise rippled from her throat, a sound that nearly seemed mournful. Like she’d lost something precious, something that was hers. She shrank suddenly, and while not nearly as large as before, she remained unnaturally tall. It was to his shock and horror as her arms wrapped around him suddenly, too fast for him to react. Her hold was tight as she pulled him down with her.
He was at a loss for words as he found himself in her lap, like a small child. Damian attempted to pull away, but her strength trumped his own easily. He looked up shakily, and his eyes widened slightly as he saw a face staring back at him. Her expression was scrunched, tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she kept her attention on him. She was objectively beautiful, but the emotions on her face were anything but.
“Oh, you’re so… young.” She sobbed, and he realized numbly that she didn’t have to breathe. “You couldn’t have… I'm really—I’m sorry. I am.”
Damian couldn’t move an inch. As upset and apologetic as she sounded (for a reason that he couldn’t begin to place), her hold was unwavering. Worse yet, his comms remained offline. He wondered how she’d been able to render them useless, or if she was even aware of having done it.
“... What—” It was harder to speak than he thought it would be. “What are you. Talking. About?”
She merely sobbed above him. Damian had his doubts that she was even able to listen to him.
“Too young. Always, too, too young. Why? Always…”
He cast his gaze away toward the movement in the far corner of the warehouse. With how nearly imperceptible it was, he knew it had to be someone from his family. Damian cursed quietly to himself, his face heating up with his shame. Of course, he needed rescuing. At least he couldn’t be blamed for this, not really. Who knew she’d treat him like this?
“Young? What?” He whispered, trying to ensure her attention stayed on him. Damian figured it wouldn’t matter much what he did; she seemed entirely in her own world. Still, he had to make some sort of attempt. “I don’t—”
“How old? Surely even smaller. Who… who did it? What… evil. Terrible, evil, evil— Who?”
The rope on his arm seared against his flesh.
“Had to have been younger. Not recent. But it stays.” She cried again, shaking him slightly as he was curled even tighter against her. “You can’t get rid of it… I know. I tried—to fight. It’s hard. So, so young. Always so young.”
A pit formed in his stomach, churning as he began to understand her meaning. Maybe this was worse than he could’ve imagined. Much, so much worse, and she shook more and more, and the memories kept flashing before him—
Hands. Cloth. Smoke. Ash. Pain.
Hands.
Always hands.
—too vivid and bright, a tear falling, slipping down his face, soon accompanied by its sibling. He felt ill, and suddenly it was three years ago, and he was nine, and all he so badly wanted was to tell his mother. But what would she think? Grandfather didn’t want to tell her. And he couldn’t dare go against his wishes, because he knew these things better. But that didn’t stop the tightness in his chest when he saw her, the words always so close at the back of his throat, and really, he should just say it if it was weighing on him so much.
But he couldn’t. And that was what really scared him, not the pain, and hands, Azan.
His shame. His worst and most concealed secret could be barred to the world for their pity and laughter. That was so, so much more terrifying than anything else.
“Oh, my sweetheart. I’m sorry. I know, I do.” The woman’s voice brought him back, as did the chafing of the ward. He watched her, the minute expressions on her face. She was in so much pain. A burden too great.
Her face seized up, a growl slipping out of her once more as her eyes caught on something he couldn’t quite see.
“Leave. Don’t.” She bellowed, her eyes flashing. “I’ll kill. You, I’ll kill all.”
Damian had a suspicion of what could have distracted her. It was confirmed as he craned his head, looking over his shoulder to see Father and the others' silhouettes, barely visible in the dark room. The spirit must sense them. She was agitated, a fury so palpable he felt it vibrating through her arms and body.
“Leave. You won’t hurt anymore. You won’t.”
Damian seized this opportunity, shimmying lightly in her grasp. It was enough for him to pull his arm out, the ward slipping easily off his arm in a gentle coil. He eyed her carefully, and when certain she wasn’t looking at him, he threw the rope over her head like he was a cowboy and she his prized cattle.
Her head snapped up, eyes widening and staring down at him with an edge of betrayal. Her hold finally loosened as she began to shrink in size, her skin growing even more translucent as her eyes fluttered closed.
It felt anticlimactic as he shakily stood up, taking a few wary steps back. Damian heard heavy footsteps approaching, and he turned around to find the others rushing toward him.
“Da—Robin, are you okay?” Dick was the first to reach him, gently beckoning him away from the woman’s limp body. He glanced behind him, watching as the rest appeared. “Did it hurt you at all? Jesus—”
“I’m fine,” Damian snapped, a bitterness behind the words. Dick took a step back, his gaze not straying.
“What happened? That thing was practically smothering you,” Steph asked, frowning. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to do anything to you.”
“Well, I guess it was only supposed to get aggressive with us. Zatanna never said anything about it, not reacting at all…” Tim answered, arms crossed.
“Seemed pretty damn aggressive to me.” Jason eyed the ward. “Hopefully that thing keeps it under wraps until Zatanna shows up.”
Damian huffed, glancing once more at the spirit. She had returned to a more human-like appearance. She looked like a woman in her early twenties at most. Her expression was calm, not as harried as before. It was unsettling, and he looked away instinctively.
“She.” He muttered. It came out before he could stop himself.
“What?” Father said, not unkindly, a tinge of confusion in his voice.
“She,” he parrotted, committing to his correction. “She is not an ‘it’.”
“... Right,” Jason cocked his head toward the others, as if to say ‘what is Robin blabbing about?’. Damian frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead. They didn’t seem suspicious, at the very least. Ignorant.
That was all the better for him; there really was no reason for them to be suspicious of him. He hadn’t done anything. Not to their knowledge; not to anyone's knowledge. He preferred it that way. The status quo had been kept, and they could continue with their perception of Damian.
Just like mother.
His father was still staring at him, a look that was incomprehensible to Damian. Something lurked underneath it all, and it unsettled him greatly. He reached forward suddenly for Damian’s shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from flinching. Father halted, pulling back carefully. He hummed quietly.
A flash of light in the center of the room nearly blinded Damian. He shielded his eyes, lowering his arm finally when the bright light ceased.
“Sorry about all of this!” Zatanna smiled sheepishly as she approached the group, already casting a spell with her hand. “I really don’t know how she sent this year; there was a whole thing with a mirror and—well, I suppose you all have better things to deal with.”
Dick waved at her, a wide smile on his face. “Took you long enough!”
Zatanna shot him a look.
“Kidding, kidding. The ward worked out; Robin managed to wrestle it on. I thought it—she wasn’t supposed to get aggressive with him.”
“She shouldn’t have. It's a whole thing that I won't get into, but she for sure won’t react unless…” Her voice trailed off, her breath catching as she stared at Damian.
“Unless…?” Tim asked, his voice hard.
She didn’t respond. Her persona faltered, her usual flair failing. Zatanna opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“I… am so sorry.” Her hands tightened at her side, voice cracking as she stared at Damian. As she brought his deepest shame to light. He did not want this. He did not want anyone knowing; it was a secret that was supposed to die with Damian and Grandfather. It wasn’t hers to give out like this, as if it were of no importance. Just a sad fact. A truth.
The room was swept with a sudden silence. It broke just as quickly.
“I— Damian, I’m—” Dick’s eyes glistened; he was unable to get out whatever response he was trying for.
“Oh my god,” Steph choked out, a deep-rooted pain crisp in her voice. “Dami…”
“Holy—shit. Jesus, I don't—” Tim massaged at his shoulder harshly. He looked ill, his skin paler than normal.
Jason stared, his helmet having been removed from his head just before. “Fuck. Kid…”
He didn’t want to hear this. Any of their thoughts, the shame of it all. They seemed uncomfortable, a horror setting in when they realized the past he carried. His mistakes were clear before them.
“... I never… You don’t have to carry this burden. Please, let me—” Father began, ready to give some great big lie of how Damian hadn’t ruined everything so young. Hadn’t been foolish, and childish, and worst of all, naive.
“You don’t have to lie.” Damian’s voice was hollow even to himself. “I know that… it was. My mistake.”
“... Mistake? You’re twelve, how could—” Tim interjected. “That’s not it.”
“You know nothing.” He hissed.
“He’s right. You couldn’t have…” Steph’s voice trailed off. “It isn’t true. Whatever you think.”
“Dami, I’m… sorry.” Jason finished lamely, but it wasn’t his weak words that caused Damian to break. Jason didn’t have that power.
Tears fell softly from Dick’s eyes as he spoke up again. “Whatever happened, whenever it was… it wasn’t your fault. There is no fault because it wasn’t a mistake, it was— Whoever did this, they’re sick. You’re good, Dami. So, so good. You have to know that.”
Damian let out a sob, a wave of ache drowning him. A bruise three years of age was finally forming, and it hurt. More than anything before, a strong and violent sensation that toyed with his senses, daring him to acknowledge it. He hadn’t felt so small since Azan.
“No, I’m not—” His voice was high-pitched and brittle. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Chum. There is nothing in the world you could’ve ever done to deserve this. Let’s… go home. Zatanna can take care of this. I want to be there for you.” Father knelt beside him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
He felt tired and flooded. “He was— strong. I’ll be stronger, one day. I promise, please. I promise.”
That wasn’t the right thing to say, it seemed, as Dick’s tears only picked up, with Steph joining him.
“You’re little. And super strong. I know you don't want to hear it, but you’re so strong. And I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel, but—you’re strong.” Steph’s arms wrapped around herself as she spoke.
“You don’t have to think about that shit. No ones gonna touch you. Not again.” Jason hissed, his hands shaking slightly.
“We’ll make sure you’re safe, Damian.” Tim was rigid in posture, but his stare was vacant. “Fuck, I promise. I do.”
“We’re going back,” Father said resolutely.
Damian’s anxiety only rose, his breath uneven at the other’s words. He shook where he stood.
It was his fault. Why couldn’t they see that? It was and always had been. He knew that. They do too.
Why do people always lie?
The next seconds felt like slow motion. A noise behind them, a guttural cry. The woman was sobbing angrily, eyes trained on the group. The rope of the ward still on her neck snapped, and she lunged forward once more. He thought this to be the spirit's final gift to him, a comfort only she knew how to bring.
Everyone scrambled away in tandem, and he used the opportunity to run. He darted out the door, up to the rooftops, grappling through the night sky.
He would return, of course.
Damian just needed a little while longer for the smell of smoke to leave him.