Chapter Text
The night air was thick with Gotham's usual cocktail of smog and impending rain. Damian crouched on the fire escape, his cape pulled tight against the wind, watching the warehouse below through his mask's enhanced lenses. Three heat signatures inside; two stationary, one moving between them.
"Robin, status?" Batman's voice crackled through the comm.
"Three hostiles. Standard drug operation. I can handle this," Damian replied, already calculating his entry point.
"Wait for backup. Red Robin is two minutes out."
Damian's jaw tightened. Two minutes. Two minutes for the criminals to finish their transaction and scatter. Two minutes to prove he needed help with something this simple.
"Negative. I'm going in."
He didn't wait for Batman's response before dropping through the skylight.
The first two went down easily; quick, efficient strikes that left them unconscious before they could raise an alarm. But the third, the one who'd been moving, wasn't where Damian's scan had placed him. By the time Damian realized his mistake, the man was already at the back exit, a duffel bag of product in hand.
Damian lunged, but his angle was wrong. His fingers brushed the bag's strap as the man twisted away, and then he was gone, disappearing into the maze of alleys behind the warehouse.
"Robin, report." Batman's voice was sharp now.
Damian stared at the open door, his fists clenched. "Two suspects down. One escaped with the product."
Silence on the comm. Then: "Red Robin, pursue. Robin, secure the scene."
The words hit like a physical blow. He'd failed, and now Tim had to clean up his mess.
Twenty minutes later, Damian stood in the Batcave, still in uniform, watching Tim hand over the recovered duffel bag to Batman. Tim had caught the runner three blocks away. Of course he had.
"Good work, Red Robin," Bruce said, examining the contents. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Robin, next time wait for backup as instructed."
"It was a simple operation—"
"That you complicated by acting alone." Bruce's tone wasn't angry, just matter-of-fact, which somehow made it worse. "We work as a team for a reason."
Dick, already changed into civilian clothes, clapped a hand on Damian's shoulder. "Hey, it happens. You got two out of three. That's not bad."
Not bad. The words echoed in Damian's head as he headed to the showers. Not bad meant not good enough. Not bad meant he'd failed.
He'd been trained by the League of Assassins. He was the son of Batman. He should have been perfect.
The hot water did nothing to wash away the feeling of inadequacy settling into his bones.
Later, in his room, Damian lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He replayed the mission over and over, analyzing every decision, every movement. The mistake had been in his initial assessment. He'd relied too heavily on the thermal scan, hadn't accounted for the warehouse's layout creating blind spots. A rookie error.
He was better than this. He had to be better than this.
His phone buzzed. A text from Jon: Hey! Still on for video games tomorrow?
Damian stared at the message. Tomorrow was Saturday. He'd planned to spend it with Jon, just hanging out like normal teenagers. But normal teenagers didn't let criminals escape. Normal teenagers didn't disappoint Batman.
He typed back: Maybe. I'll let you know.
Then he opened his laptop and pulled up the Batcomputer's training protocols. If he started early tomorrow, he could get in three extra hours before anyone else woke up.
Sleep could wait. He had work to do.