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It was a Tuesday in Gotham, which meant the humidity was at 90%, the gargoyles were dripping with grime, and Damian Wayne was currently being shoved into the back of a nondescript Ford Transit van.
Under normal circumstances, the perpetrators—two men named ‘Bugsy’ and ‘Knuckles’ (Damian assumed, based on their lack of dental hygiene and over-reliance on polyester)—would have been unconscious within 4.2 seconds.
Damian could have broken their femurs with a well-placed kick before they even cleared the child-safety locks.
But Damian was currently in his civilian identity. He was wearing a tailored Italian wool blazer and carrying a violin case. More importantly, he was bored.
He had spent three hours in a grueling board meeting at Wayne Enterprises as an "observer," and the prospect of being "kidnapped" seemed slightly more entertaining than hearing another PowerPoint presentation on sustainable energy investments.
"Don’t struggle, kid!" Bugsy barked, zip-tying Damian’s wrists.
Damian rolled his eyes, settling onto the floor of the van with a grace that no ten-year-old should possess. "Your technique is abysmal. You’ve left far too much slack in the plastic. I could slip these in my sleep."
"Shut up!" Knuckles growled, sliding the side door shut. "We know who you are. You’re the Wayne brat. The youngest one."
"The only biological one," Damian corrected haughtily. "The others are merely high-end strays my father collected to fill the void of his empty mansion."
The van screeched away from the curb. Damian leaned his head against the vibrating metal wall, mentally calculating the route. Two lefts, a long straightaway over the Miller Bridge, likely heading toward the Narrows.
"You’re gonna make us rich, kid," Bugsy chuckled, patting a burner phone. "We’re gonna ask for the big bucks. Life-changing money."
Damian raised an eyebrow. "I should hope so. My father’s net worth is currently estimated at over $100 billion. If you ask for anything less than a king’s ransom, you’re not only criminals, you’re failures at basic arithmetic."
"We know what we’re doing," Knuckles sneered. "We saw the news last week. That other Wayne kid—the skinny one with the tired eyes?"
"Drake," Damian spat the name like it was a curse.
"Yeah, him. The Drake kid got snatched by the Falcone remnants. They got a cool $30 million for him. We figured we’d aim for the same neighborhood."
Damian went very, very still. The air in the van seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Excuse me?" Damian asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"You heard me," Bugsy said, oblivious to the fact that he was currently trapped in a small space with the world’s most dangerous pre-teen. "Thirty mil. It’s the going rate for a Wayne, apparently."
"You... you intend to ask for thirty million dollars for me?" Damian’s voice trembled, but not with fear. It was pure, unadulterated rage.
"Hey, don't get greedy! That’s plenty to go around," Knuckles laughed.
"Thirty million," Damian hissed. "Timothy Drake—a boy who spends his weekends drinking burnt coffee and staring at spreadsheets, a boy who was defeated by a light breeze last October—was ransomed for thirty million dollars. And you think I, the blood son of Al Ghul, the heir to the Batman, am worth the same?"
"Uh..." Bugsy looked at Knuckles. "Kid’s weird."
"I am worth ten times that boy!" Damian shouted, kicking the side of the van so hard the metal dented outward. "The insult! The sheer, staggering incompetence of the Gotham criminal underworld! I will not stand for this!"
"Sit down and shut up!" Bugsy yelled, waving a pistol.
Damian stared down the barrel of the gun with a look of such intense condescension that Bugsy actually flinched. "You will dial my father. Now. And if you ask for a penny less than fifty million, I will dismantle this van with my bare hands and use the scraps to build a cage for the two of you."
The Batcave: 4:15 PM
Bruce Wayne sat at the Batcomputer, his brow furrowed as he analyzed a lead on a Scarecrow toxin shipment. Behind him, Tim Drake was nursing a massive mug of coffee, and Dick Grayson was idly practicing handstand on the edge of the training mat.
The silence was broken by the shrill ring of a secure line. It was the phone associated with Bruce Wayne’s public persona.
"A kidnapping?" Dick asked, flipping upright. "It’s been a while. Who’s missing? Is it Alfred?"
"No," Bruce said, glancing at the GPS tracker embedded in Damian’s blazer. "It’s Damian. He’s in the Narrows. He hasn't triggered his distress beacon yet, which means he’s likely doing this on purpose."
Tim smirked. "Probably wants to see if he can beat my record for the fastest escape."
Bruce put the call on speaker. "Hello?" he said, his voice dropping into his 'distressed father' tone.
"Mr. Wayne!" a voice rasped over the line. It sounded like the man was breathing through a straw. "We have your son. Damian."
"I see," Bruce said, gesturing for Tim to start a trace. "Is he... alright?"
"Is he alright?!" the kidnapper screamed into the phone. There was a loud crashing sound in the background, followed by Damian’s voice shouting, 'TELL HIM THE PRICE, YOU COWARDLY PEASANT!'
"Listen, Wayne," the kidnapper whispered, sounding terrified. "We were gonna ask for ten million. We thought that was a lot! But the kid... he’s gone crazy! He’s lecturing us on inflation! He says if you pay ten million, he’ll take it as a personal insult and 'burn the city to ash'!"
Tim Drake choked on his coffee, spraying it across the console. Dick began to howl with laughter.
"Wait," Tim gasped, clutching his stomach. "Did you say ten million?"
"Yeah!" the kidnapper yelled. "But he’s demanding fifty! He says the 'Drake boy' got thirty and he refuses to be 'devalued like a sub-prime mortgage'! Please, Mr. Wayne, just pay the fifty million so he’ll stop talking about his genetic superiority!"
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could hear Damian in the background.
"Father! Father, do not negotiate with these imbeciles!" Damian’s voice was clear and commanding. "If you pay a cent less than sixty million, I will never speak to you again! My market value is at an all-time high! I have mastered three new languages this month and my CQC times have improved by 4%! Drake is a depreciating asset! I am a blue-chip investment!"
"Damian," Bruce sighed. "Put the kidnapper back on."
"I'm here, I'm here!" the kidnapper sobbed.
"Listen to me very carefully," Bruce said, his voice stern. "I'm not paying sixty million dollars."
"See!" the kidnapper yelled at Damian. "He won't pay it!"
"However," Bruce continued. "If you can keep him there for another two hours without letting him kill you, I’ll give you five million just for the trouble of listening to him."
"FIVE MILLION?!" Damian screamed. "I AM WORTH AT LEAST A HUNDRED MILLION NOW! FATHER, YOU ARE TANKING MY STOCK!"
The "hideout" was an abandoned sardine cannery in the Narrows. It smelled of salt, rust, and the lingering, oily ghost of ten thousand dead fish. For Bugsy and Knuckles, it was a tactical base of operations. For Damian Wayne, it was a personal affront to his sensory organs.
"Disgusting," Damian remarked, still sitting in the chair where they had nominally 'tied' him. He hadn't bothered to break the zip-ties yet; he found that the tension of the plastic against his wrists served as a helpful reminder of the sheer incompetence he was currently dealing with. "The structural integrity of this ceiling is questionable at best. If a stiff breeze or a stray Batarang were to hit that support beam, we would all be crushed under four tons of corrugated tin. Is this truly the best your 'syndicate' could provide?"
"It’s not a syndicate, kid! It’s just us!" Knuckles yelled, pacing back and forth while clutching his head. He had a migraine. It had started the moment Damian began explaining the difference between "kidnapping" and "aggravated abduction with intent to disparage a family legacy."
"Clearly," Damian sniffed. "Your lack of a middle-manager is evident in the lack of basic amenities. No climate control, no refreshments, and your Wi-Fi signal is nonexistent. How do you expect to receive a wire transfer of fifty million dollars if your router was manufactured in the late nineties?"
Bugsy was sitting on a crate of rusted cans, staring at his burner phone as if it were a live grenade. "Your dad... he said he’d give us five million just to keep you here. Five million is a lot of money, Knuckles. We could retire to Florida. We could buy a boat."
"Five million is an insult!" Damian roared, the chair legs scraping harshly against the concrete as he leaned forward. "If you accept five million, you are essentially telling the world that I am worth one-sixth of Timothy Drake! Do you have any idea what that would do to my reputation? I would be the laughingstock of the League of Assassins! My grandfather would rise from his Lazarus Pit just to disown me again!"
"Kid, please," Bugsy begged. "We just want to get paid."
"Then you will do as I say," Damian commanded, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute authority that usually made seasoned mercenaries tremble. "Pick up that phone. You are going to call the Wayne Manor landline. Not the cell, the landline. Alfred answers that one, and he has a much firmer grasp on the value of high-end assets."
Before Bugsy could react, his burner phone began to vibrate. The caller ID was blocked.
"Is that him?" Knuckles whispered. "Is that Big Bruce?"
Bugsy hit speaker. "Hello? We’re still here! We want the money!"
"Actually," a voice drawled over the speaker, dripping with smug satisfaction.
"This is Timothy Drake. I heard there was a bit of a... pricing dispute?"
Damian’s face turned a shade of red that shouldn't be biologically possible.
"DRAKE! I will skin you alive and use your hide as a decorative rug in the
foyer!"
"Easy there, 'Value Brand' Damian," Tim’s voice chuckled. Bruce and Dick could be heard laughing in the background. "I just wanted to call and offer some sympathy. It must be hard, knowing that the Gotham underworld views you as a 'budget' Wayne. I mean, thirty million for me was actually a bit low—I think Falcone was being cheap—but ten million for you? That’s practically a clearance sale. Are you sure they didn't find you in a bargain bin?"
"I AM THE BLOOD SON!" Damian screamed at the phone. "You are an interloper! A temporary placeholder! A clerical error in the Wayne family tree!"
"Hey, don't take it out on the kidnappers," Tim continued, clearly enjoying himself. "They’re just reading the market. Demand for 'Snotty Ten-Year-Olds' is down this quarter. Now, if you were a 'Competent Robin,' the price might go up. But as it stands? I’d say five million is generous. Honestly, Bruce is overpaying."
"Drake, I swear by the sword of my ancestors—"
"Anyway," Tim interrupted. "I’ve got to go. I’m going to go spend some of that 'Thirty Million Dollar Quality' inheritance on a new tech setup. Good luck with the... you know... being cheap."
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was heavy. Bugsy and Knuckles looked at Damian. Damian was vibrating. Not out of fear, but out of a localized tectonic shift of pure, concentrated fury.
Snap.
The zip-ties hit the floor in four neat pieces. Damian stood up, brushing a speck of dust off his blazer. He didn't move toward the door. Instead, he moved toward the kidnappers.
"Give me the phone," Damian said. It wasn't a request.
"Wh-why?" Bugsy stammered, backing away.
"Because," Damian said, his eyes glowing with a terrifying intensity. "You are clearly too stupid to handle a high-stakes negotiation. If I am going to be kidnapped, I am going to be the most expensive kidnapping in the history of this wretched city. You are going to sit down, you are going to take notes, and we are re going to draft a ransom demand that will make my father weep for his bank
account."
"But—"
"Sit!" Damian commanded.
The two grown men scrambled to sit on the floor.
"Now," Damian said, pacing in front of them like a general. "First, we must address the presentation. That video you sent earlier? The lighting was atrocious. I looked washed out. If we are to demand top-tier pricing, we need high-definition visuals. Does either of you have a smartphone with a 4K camera?"
"I... I have an iPhone 13?" Knuckles offered tentatively.
"Acceptable, barely. Next, the script. 'Give us money or the kid gets it' is cliché. It’s pedestrian. It’s something a common mugger would say. We need to emphasize my unique skill sets. We need to mention my mastery of eighteen martial arts, my fluency in multiple tongues, and the fact that I am the only person in the Wayne household who actually knows how to properly groom a Great
Dane."
"Is that... is that gonna make him pay more?" Bugsy asked.
"It establishes value," Damian snapped. "If you’re buying a car, do you pay more for a base model or a fully loaded luxury vehicle? I am the luxury vehicle of sons! Now, Knuckles, start filming. Bugsy, you will read the script I am about to dictate. And if you stumble over the word 'hegemony' one more time, I will break your pinky finger."
The Batcave: 5:45 PM
Bruce, Dick, and Tim were watching the monitor. A new video had just been uploaded to an encrypted server.
In the video, Bugsy was standing in front of the camera, looking like he had been crying. He was holding a piece of paper that looked like it had been written in very precise, aggressive calligraphy.
"To, uh... the Illustrious House of Wayne," Bugsy read, his voice trembling.
"We, the... uh... 'Collective of Tactical Acquisition,' hereby declare that the previous ransom was a clerical error. The individual currently in our custody represents the pinnacle of the Wayne bloodline. As such, the new price for the return of Damian Wayne is eighty million dollars, three kilograms of Grade-A saffron, and a public apology from Timothy Drake regarding his 'unearned arrogance'."
Bugsy looked off-camera, whispering, "Was that okay?"
"More passion!" Damian’s voice barked from behind the camera. "And mention the jet! Mention the refueling rights in Bialya!"
"And... and we also want a private jet with refueling rights in... in the place with the sand!" Bugsy yelled desperately. "Please! Just pay it! He’s making us reorganize the whole warehouse! He’s got Knuckles doing push-ups because his. 'posture is an affront to the criminal profession'!"
The video ended with the sound of Damian yelling at Knuckles to "lock out his elbows."
Dick Grayson fell off his chair, laughing so hard he was gasping for air.
"He’s... he’s coaching them! He’s literally coaching his own kidnappers!"
Tim was staring at the screen, a mix of horror and amusement on his face. "He wants a public apology? In the ransom note? That’s next-level petty."
Bruce, however, wasn't laughing. He was looking at the background of the video.
"He’s moved them to the north corner of the cannery. He’s positioned the 'kidnappers' in front of a reflective surface. If you look at the glare on that piece of metal... those are the GPS coordinates of the Narrows substation."
"So he's giving us his location?" Dick asked, wiping tears from his eyes.
"No," Bruce sighed, standing up and heading toward the Batmobile. "He’s giving us the location because he wants us to come witness him 'winning' this negotiation. He’s not waiting for a rescue. He’s waiting for an audience."
Thirty miles away, in the serene skies above Metropolis, Jonathan Kent froze mid-air.
His super-hearing, always subconsciously tuned to the specific, sharp thump-thump-thump of a very particular, very angry heartbeat, had just picked up a familiar rhythm. It was the heartbeat of Damian Wayne—a sound Jon often described as "a tiny war drum played by someone who hates everyone."
Usually, Damian’s heart was steady, a byproduct of his League of Assassins training. But right now, it was spiking in a way that suggested either a high-level boss fight or a truly spectacular temper tantrum.
Then, Jon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A news alert: Damian Wayne, son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, abducted in Gotham Narrows. Ransom demanded.
"Damian!" Jon gasped, his caped blurred as he broke the sound barrier.
He didn't care about secret identities or the "no-supers-in-Gotham" rule that Batman so strictly enforced. His best friend was in danger. He could hear the muffled sounds of shouting coming from a derelict cannery near the docks. He could hear the scent of sea salt and... floor wax?
"Hang on, D!" Jon yelled to the wind, his eyes glowing red with protective fury.
"I’m coming!"
The Cannery
Jon didn't just enter the building; he liberated the roof.
With a thunderous CRASH, the corrugated metal peeled back like a sardine tin, letting the late afternoon sun pour into the dark warehouse. Jon dropped down, landing in a perfect superhero Three-Point Stance, dust swirling around his cape.
"Unhand him, you fiends!" Jon shouted, his fists clenched, ready to melt whatever weaponry the kidnappers were holding. "If you’ve touched a single hair on his—"
Jon stopped.
He blinked. Then he blinked again.
The warehouse was spotless. The rusted cans had been stacked into neat, architecturally sound pyramids. The floor had been swept so thoroughly it practically sparkled.
In the center of the room, Knuckles was currently in a plank position on the concrete floor, sweat pouring off his face as he trembled with exhaustion. Bugsy was standing in the corner, wearing a makeshift apron made from a burlap sack, meticulously polishing a silver platter he had apparently found in the trash.
Damian Wayne was sitting on a "throne" made of high-quality shipping crates, holding a stopwatch and looking deeply unimpressed.
"Forty-five seconds, Kent," Damian said, not even looking up. "Your response time from Metropolis is slipping. I expected you at thirty-eight."
"Damian?" Jon stood up, his cape fluttering awkwardly. "I... I came to save you? There was a ransom note? The news said—"
"The news is reporting a valuation that is frankly slanderous," Damian snapped, finally standing up. "Jon, look at these two. Look at them!"
Jon looked at the kidnappers. Knuckles let out a pathetic whimpering sound from the floor. "Please..." the kidnapper whispered. "Please, kid. Just let me do a sit-up. My core can’t take any more."
"Form, Knuckles! Keep your spine straight or you'll never have the core strength to pull off a successful heist!" Damian barked. He then turned back to Jon. "Do you know what they asked for? Ten million. Ten."
"Is... isn't ten million a lot?" Jon asked, floating a few inches off the ground in confusion.
"It is an insult!" Damian shouted, his voice echoing off the newly cleaned walls. "Last week, Drake was ransomed for thirty. If I allow myself to be recovered for a mere ten million, I am effectively admitting that I am one-third the human being that Timothy is. I will not have it! I have spent the last three hours re-training these amateurs into a semi-competent tactical unit so they can demand a figure that reflects my actual contribution to the Wayne legacy."
Jon scratched his head. "So... you're not kidnapped?"
"Oh, I'm very much kidnapped," Damian said, gesturing to his slightly wrinkled blazer. "But I am a premium hostage. I have upgraded their demands. We are now at eighty-five million, a fleet of electric getaway vehicles—to reduce the carbon footprint of their escape—and a formal retraction from the Gotham Gazette regarding my 'petulant' behavior at the last gala."
"Kid," Bugsy sobbed from the corner, holding the silver platter. "Please. Just go with the flying boy. We don't want the money anymore. We just want to go to jail. It's safer there."
"Silence!" Damian pointed a finger at Bugsy. "You haven't finished the hors d'oeuvres! If the Bat-Family is coming to negotiate, we must provide a level of hospitality that matches the ransom bracket!"
Jon looked at Damian, then at the broken, weeping men, then up at the hole in the roof. "D, I think you've gone a little overboard. My dad says it’s not really a kidnapping if the hostage is the one giving the orders."
"Your father lives in a world of primary colors and simple morals, Jonathan,"
Damian said, stepping off his crate throne. "In Gotham, everything is about branding. If I am 'saved' now, the narrative will be that I was rescued from a ten-million-dollar threat. I will be the 'budget' Robin. I will be the 'discount' son. I would rather stay in this fish-scented hellscape for a year than let Drake have that satisfaction."
Suddenly, the front doors of the warehouse blew inward.
A flurry of smoke pellets filled the room. Three shadows dropped from the rafters—one large and imposing, two lean and acrobatic.
"Get away from the boy!" Batman’s voice boomed through the smoke, terrifying and cold.
"Oh, thank God!" Knuckles screamed, collapsing out of his plank. "Batman! Arrest us! Please! Use the Batarangs! Put me in a chokehold! Anything but the lectures!"
The smoke cleared. Batman, Nightwing, and Red Robin stood in a tactical semi-circle. They were geared up for a high-level rescue mission.
They all paused, taking in the scene: the polished floors, the stacked cans, the sobbing criminals, and Superboy standing there looking like he wanted to be anywhere else on Earth.
Tim Drake stepped forward, squinting at a chalkboard Damian had set up. "Is that... a SWOT analysis of the Gotham kidnapping market?"
"It is a comprehensive breakdown of why you are overpriced and I am undervalued, Drake!" Damian shouted, pointing at the board. "Look at the 'Weaknesses' column for your 30-million-dollar snatching! 'Lack of decorum,' 'Poor lighting,' and 'Failure to demand snacks'! My kidnapping has a 98% satisfaction rating in terms of efficiency!"
Dick Grayson tucked his Escrima sticks away, his shoulders starting to shake with suppressed laughter. "Damian... did you make them clean the warehouse?"
"It was a biohazard," Damian sniffed. "If I am to be held at gunpoint, I refuse to do so in a room that smells of low-tide and failure."
Bruce (as Batman) stared at the two kidnappers. He looked at Bugsy, who was currently trying to offer him a "cleansed" sardine on a piece of scrap metal.
"He made us... he made us practice our 'intimidating walks' for two hours,"
Bugsy moaned. "He said I moved like a 'clumsy pack-mule' and that I was lowering
the prestige of the crime."
Batman turned his gaze to Damian. The cowl was impassive, but those who knew Bruce could see the slight twitch of his lips.
"Damian," Batman said, his voice deep and gravelly. "The ransom has been settled."
Damian stiffened. "For how much? If it's a cent under eighty million—" "Actually," Tim interrupted, holding up his tablet with a grin. "I took the liberty of 'hacking' the kidnappers' account. Since they didn't have a secure server—thanks to your 'mentorship'—I managed to transfer their entire operational fund to a local charity for wayward kittens."
Damian blinked. "You... what?"
"And," Bruce added, "I’ve told the press that the kidnappers actually paid us five hundred dollars just to take you back."
The silence in the warehouse was absolute. Jon Kent winced, bracing for the explosion.
Damian’s face went from pale to red to a very vibrant shade of purple. "YOU... YOU ARE TANKING MY BRAND!"
"It's true," Dick chirped, clapping Damian on the shoulder. "The headlines tomorrow are going to be great. 'Damian Wayne: The Boy So Annoying, Kidnappers Paid to Get Rid of Him.' It’s a very niche market, D. Very 'underground'."
"I WILL DESTROY YOU ALL!" Damian screamed, lunging for Tim, only to be caught mid-air by a laughing Jon Kent.
"Come on, 'Budget' Robin," Jon joked, hoisting his friend over his shoulder.
"Let’s go home. I’ll even let you lecture me on the way about why you’re worth more than a hundred million. It’ll be great."
"UNHAND ME, KENT! I AM AN ELITE ASSET! I AM THE HIGHEST-VALUED WAYNE! FATHER, TELL THEM! TELL THEM I AM WORTH MORE THAN DRAKE!"
As Jon flew out through the hole in the roof with a screaming, thrashing Damian, Bruce looked down at the two kidnappers.
"Please," Knuckles whispered, holding out his wrists for the handcuffs. "Take us to Blackgate. We need the rest."
Bruce sighed, reached into his utility belt, and pulled out two sets of cuffs.
"You’re lucky," he muttered. "He usually makes me do the push-ups too."
The headline of the Gotham Gazette the next morning was a masterpiece of psychological warfare.
"THE FIVE-HUNDRED DOLLAR SON: Kidnappers Pay Bruce Wayne to Take Back 'Insufferable' Heir."
Damian sat at the massive mahogany dining table in Wayne Manor, the newspaper trembling in his hands. Opposite him, Tim Drake was calmly eating a bowl of cereal, scrolling through his phone and occasionally letting out a sharp, deliberate snort of laughter.
"It’s trending on TikTok, Damian," Tim said, turning his screen around. "There’s a dance challenge. It’s called the 'Give Him Back' slide. It’s already reached three million views."
"I will burn the internet," Damian whispered, his voice vibrating with a frequency that made the fine china rattle. "I will find the servers, I will douse them in thermite, and I will erase this stain upon my lineage."
"Oh, I don't know," Dick Grayson chirped, sliding into the seat next to him and ruffling Damian’s hair—an act that usually resulted in a fork through the hand.
"I think it’s charming! It’s a new record. Most people have to pay to get rid of their kids. You managed to make the criminals pay for the privilege of your absence."
"Alfred," Damian barked, ignoring the elder brother. "Bring me the laptop. The high-capacity one with the encrypted satellite link."
Alfred Pennyworth stepped into the room, carrying a tray of perfectly poached eggs. "I’m afraid Master Bruce has placed a 'technological sabbatical' on your devices, Master Damian. Something about preventing a cyber-war with the local media."
Damian stood up, his chair flying backward. "If the world refuses to acknowledge my value through traditional kidnapping, then I shall have to correct the market myself. I am the Heir to the Demon. I am the Son of the Bat. I am NOT a five-hundred-dollar discount item!"
Two Hours Later: The Watchtower
Superman, Wonder Woman, and several other members of the Justice League were gathered around the main monitor. A red alert had been triggered by a high-level security breach on the Dark Web.
"Someone just opened a live auction on the 'Shade-Net'—the high-end mercenary exchange," Cyborg reported, his mechanical eye whirring. "The item up for bid... is Damian Wayne."
"Wait, he’s been kidnapped again?" Flash asked, confused. "Didn't he just get back?"
"No," Cyborg said, leaning in. "He’s the one who started the auction. He’s listed himself as 'Asset Alpha: The Ultimate Biological Legacy.' The starting bid is... wow. One hundred million dollars."
"Is he selling himself?" Diana asked, her brow furrowed.
"Technically, he’s selling the right to kidnap him," Cyborg clarified. "The description says, and I quote: 'For those who wish to prove their status in the criminal underworld, here is an opportunity to acquire the most dangerous and valuable hostage in existence. No amateurs. No discount ransoms. Proof of funds required.'"
Suddenly, a notification popped up on the screen.
NEW BID: $150,000,000 – User: HeadOfTheDemon
"That's Ra's al Ghul," Superman sighed, rubbing his temples. "He’s bidding on
his own grandson."
NEW BID: $200,000,000 – User: LexCorp_Internal
"Lex?" Superman groaned. "Why would Lex bid on Damian?"
"Probably to annoy Bruce," Flash suggested. "Or because he wants a sidekick who can actually finish a sentence without stuttering."
NEW BID: $250,000,000 – User: CoffeeAddict99
"Wait," Cyborg squinted at the screen. "I know that encryption signature. That’s Tim Drake."
Wayne Manor
Tim was leaning back in his chair in the Batcave, his fingers flying across the keys. Beside him, Bruce was watching with an expression that hovered somewhere between "I should have been a librarian" and "This is technically a felony."
"Tim, what are you doing?" Bruce asked.
"I'm driving up the price," Tim smirked. "If Damian wants a high valuation, I’m going to give it to him. But I’m going to make sure he knows I’m the one paying for it. It’s the ultimate power move."
"You're using my money," Bruce pointed out.
"It's for a good cause, Bruce. It's for the 'Damian Needs to Be Humiliated' Foundation."
NEW BID: $300,000,000 – User: HeadOfTheDemon
NEW BID: $500,000,000 – User: JokeZ_On_U
The cave went cold. The Joker was in the chat.
"Okay, now it’s a problem," Bruce said, his voice dropping into his Batman tone. He shoved Tim aside and began typing.
The Narrows – Secret Location
Damian was sitting in a high-tech chair inside a small, rented storage unit. He had a holographic projector running the auction in real-time. His plan was working. The numbers were climbing. He was finally being valued at his true worth.
Suddenly, the door to the storage unit was ripped off its hinges.
"Damian! Stop this!"
Jon Kent hovered in the doorway, looking panicked. "The Justice League is losing their minds! My dad is arguing with Wonder Woman about whether they should 'outbid' the Joker to keep you safe! This is getting out of hand!"
"Nonsense, Jonathan," Damian said, eyes glued to the rising numbers. "Look! Lex Luthor just bid seven hundred million. I am officially more valuable than the annual GDP of several small nations! I have eclipsed Drake! I have eclipsed
everyone!"
"But you’re selling your own kidnapping!" Jon landed, grabbing Damian’s arm.
"What happens if someone wins? You can’t just go live with the Joker because he
paid the most!"
"The Joker cannot afford me," Damian scoffed. "He bankrupts himself on laughing gas and purple suits. No, the winner will likely be my grandfather. He has the deepest pockets and the most to gain. I will simply 'escape' his custody within forty-eight hours, having successfully established my market price."
NEW BID: $1,000,000,000 – User: I_AM_THE_NIGHT
The screen turned black. A golden seal appeared over the auction.
AUCTION CLOSED.
WINNER: I_AM_THE_NIGHT
"One billion dollars?" Jon gasped. "Who is that?"
Damian’s smug smile faltered. He knew that username. It was the one Bruce used for his private, high-stakes charity poker games.
His phone chimed. It was a text from his father.
BRUCE: I just bought you for a billion dollars. You are now the most expensive child in history. You are also grounded until you are thirty-five. I’m sending Jon to bring you home. Also, Alfred says you're doing the dishes for the next year to pay off the 'acquisition fee'.
Damian stared at the phone. He had won. He was worth a billion dollars. He was, mathematically, the most valuable son in the world.
But at what cost?
"Well?" Jon asked, crossing his arms. "You got what you wanted. You’re a billion-dollar hostage. Ready to go back?"
Damian looked at the "Dish Duty" part of the text and sighed. "Jonathan... could you perhaps fly me to the moon? I think I’d like to live there now."
"Nope," Jon grinned, scooping Damian up. "A billion dollars is a lot of money, D. I can't let a 'luxury item' like you fall into the wrong hands."
The next day, Tim Drake walked into the kitchen wearing a t-shirt that said: "I ONLY COST 30 MILLION AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID SHIRT (AND A BROTHER WHO OWES
A BILLION)."
Damian, wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves and standing in front of a mountain of greasy pots and pans, didn't even look up.
"Drake," Damian said, his voice cold.
"Yes, 'Billion-Dollar Boy'?"
"One day, I will be the head of this house. And when that day comes, your 'ransom value' will be exactly one cent."
"Maybe," Tim laughed, grabbing an apple. "But until then... you missed a spot on that frying pan. Be careful—at your price point, I’d hate for you to get a chip in your finish."
Damian squeezed the sponge so hard it exploded.
Deep down, though, as he scrubbed a particularly stubborn lasagna stain, he felt a small sense of pride. A billion dollars. Bruce had paid a billion.
He was definitely the favorite.