Chapter Text
The cotton sheets of Nanda Parbat felt like a personal insult against Damian’s soul. He lay there, staring at a ceiling he had not seen in decades, feeling the small weight of a ten-year-old body that had no right to exist anymore.
He had died a good man.
He had balanced bloody books, saved the world more times than he could count and finally reveled in the quiet of a life well-lived—only to be thrown back into this tiny, murderous vessel just days before his mother was scheduled to drop him on his father’s doorstep.
Damian scowled at the empty air again, mentally telling the universe it was an absolute tosser for resorting to such a tired, overused trope in his afterlife. He’d already done the whole hero thing, the death thing, the rebirth thing—so what was the point now? Every moment felt like a cruel reminder that nothing was ever simple, and even in death, the universe loved to mess with him.
He closed his eyes and mapped out the impending disaster.
In three days, he would be handed over to Batman like an unwanted parcel. Then came the “meeting” with Timothy Drake—or as he and Todd had called him then, the Replacement. Damian remembered the sheer effort he had put into trying to assassinate that boy, a task that now seemed like a massive waste of energy.
He thought of the years that followed: the death of his father, the period where he served as Robin to Dick Grayson’s Batman—the only time he truly felt the “Dynamic Duo” title meant anything—and his own eventual death at the hands of a clone. He had spent decades fixing his reputation, evolving from a bratty assassin into a man who actually enjoyed community service. Now, he was expected to queue up and do it all again.
The doors to his chambers swung open.
His mother, Talia al Ghul, stepped into the room.
She looked down at him, her eyes narrowing at his unmoving form. “You are still in bed, my son? This lethargy is beneath a scion of the al Ghul line,” she remarked. “You should be honing your edge. In three days, you will finally meet the Detective. I have spent years preparing you to stand at his side.”
She leaned down, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. “He will look at you and see the only thing in this world that is truly his. And then, he will finally be ours.”
Damian sat up, his face a mask of perfect, youthful obedience. “I apologise, Mother. I was merely visualising the encounter. I will not fail to impress him.”
Mother smiled. “Good. You are the future of this world.” She turned on her heel and swept out of the room.
The days leading up to his departure were a blur of lessons.
They were, frankly, an insult to his intelligence.
He sat through history lectures from scholars who spoke of events he had personally witnessed or influenced in his previous life. He felt relieved that the universe, in its infinite lack of creativity, had at least let him keep his skills. Most of those “reborn” characters in the rubbish novels he had confiscated from Drake’s room usually had to start from level zero, grinding for experience like a common peasant.
Damian, however, was already at the level cap.
He played the part of the precocious child to perfection. He would “struggle” with a complex equation for exactly three seconds before solving it, or pretend to be slightly winded after a three-hour run. It was adorable, really—a tiny, murderous genius pretending to be “tired” just to keep the staff from suspecting he was actually a fifty-year-old soul in a jumper.
He stood in the centre of the training ring now, facing a guard twice his size.
The man lunged, but Damian was not there. He moved like smoke, his tiny limbs guided by decades of muscle memory. He caught the man’s wrist, redirected his momentum, and drove his palm upward. He struck the base of the nose at a precise upward angle, targeting the ethmoid bone to send a shock through the sensory nerves.
It was the most efficient way to induce a “blackout” response without wasting energy. The guard crumbled into a heap, and Damian adjusted his tunic with a huff. “Your footwork is absolute rubbish,” he noted to the unconscious man. “Do better next time.”
Damian walked off the mat.
It is bloody roasting, he thought, maintaining a stoic expression as a servant draped a cool, damp towel around his neck. The humidity in this place is a total shamble. I have spent years in the afterlife—or whatever that blissful void was—and the universe decides to reincarnate me in a bloody desert? It is like being punished for having a clear conscience.
He accepted a cup of herbal tea from a bowing servant, sipping the warm liquid silently. He did not say a word to the staff because he was still the untouchable prince, after all. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in the deep shadows of the stone corridor.
And here we go, he thought, mentally rolling his eyes.
Enter the Lady of the Shadows. She cannot just walk through a doorway like a normal person, can she? No, it has to be the slow, dramatic reveal. If I were the author of this nonsense, I would at least give her a cape that does not get caught on the masonry.
Mother stepped into the light, her face softened by a pride that felt both beautiful and terrifying. She reached out, her fingers grazing his cheek. “You have been a marvel these last two days, Damian. Such focus. Such discipline. It is clear that the anticipation of meeting your father has lit a fire within you. I have never been more proud.”
Damian leaned into her palm, a warmth spreading through him. He loved her, in that complicated way one loves a person who once tried to replace them with a murderous clone, but he also remembered the blood. He felt like a man pretending to be a child pretending to be an assassin. “I only wish to prove my worth, Mother,” he said, his voice a perfect lie.
Mother withdrew her hand, though her gaze remained fixed on him with intensity. “You have exceeded yourself, Damian. Since you have been so diligent, you shall rest early today. Go, pack your belongings and prepare your mind. We will leave at first light after tomorrow.”
She tilted her head slightly toward the darkness of the corridor.
A high-ranking League captain stepped forward, bowing low.
“The arrangements?” she asked.
“The private transport is fuelled, Great One,” the captain reported. “We will fly to the Mediterranean coast, where the silent-running submarine is waiting. We will approach Gotham from the bay to avoid the Detective’s coastal sensors.”
Mother nodded. “See that the transition is seamless. I want no delays.” She looked back at Damian one last time. “Rest well, my son. The world will soon know your name.”
As she swept out of the room with her entourage, Damian stood in the air of the training grounds. He felt a little bit annoyed at the theatrics of it all. A submarine. Of course, it had to be a bloody submarine. The universe truly did not know how to do things in a subtle or cost-effective manner. He took a final sip of his tea, feeling the weight of the decades he had already lived pressing against his small ribs. It was time to go back to the beginning.