Chapter Text
From a young age, everyone could tell that Dahlia Al-Ghul was relentless. Her technique is flawless, and she is stronger than she looks. She is precise, she is exact, she is lethal, she is perfect. And failure is not a word in her vocabulary. Her trainers call her ruthless. Her opponents call her vile. Her mother calls her depraved. And her father? She doesn't even know him.
A lavish, sleek black car pulled up to the curb. Dahlia could tell that it was heavily armored but disguised to look normal – or at least as normal as one of the most expensive Rolls-Royces could be – it was surprisingly inconspicuous. At least she hoped it was. Frankly, she was not in the mood to deal with unwanted attention or anyone really. And she was certain that she would not enjoy this meeting.
Her mother gripped a soft, manicured hand on her shoulder and leaned down to her ear. “You are to be on your best behavior. Do you understand me?” Her voice matched the tightness of her grip on my shoulder, harsh enough to leave a mark but not to bruise. Mother was always like this. “Yes, mother,” Dahlia replied swiftly. She made sure to keep her hands firmly folded in front of her. Mother said that these people she was meeting did not trust easily, and they certainly did not take kindly to any hidden weapons.
Dahlia thought it was stupid – partially because she considered her hands weapons – but also because usually only one party has to play by these weaponless rules.
A tall, well-dressed elderly man stepped out of the driver's side of the vehicle. As he walked around the car Dahlia could tell that he had been expertly trained. Definitely not a man to be trifled with. He also reminded Dahlia of a grandfather you would see in TV shows and movies. One who would read your stories after dinner, give you little chocolates in secret, and one who you could talk to for hours on end. Of course, she knew that it was all fake; her grandfather could never be like that.
A calm British accent broke her out of her thoughts, “Lady Tahlia, a pleasure as always, please sit down.” He opened the back seat car door and gestured to the seats inside. “Why, thank you, Alfred. Still handling Bruce, I see.” Mother retorted. She is always so passive-aggressive. The man, Alfred, made no comment, deciding to hold the door open instead. Dahlia could feel his eyes giving her a sideways glance as I slid into the car.
As we drove into the streets of Gotham the car was dead silent. I watched the crowds of people drift by as the gothic buildings towered above them. As the city became denser and denser, the light seemed to dim. A thick smog covered the sky, blocking out the rays of sunshine, snuffing out any stream of light. It seemed like quite a dreadful place to live.
Dahlia prayed she wouldn't be staying long.
The car pulled off the main road into a dark alleyway. Dahlia could feel the car lurch to a stop in front of a large black gate. Alfred tapped a button on the steering wheel and the gate opened with a skreetch. The car rumbled forward into a dim tunnel. Dahlia knew she had nothing to be worried about; she could handle herself quite well. But as she glanced up into the review mirror and watched the gates close, sealing off the exit, all she felt was a sense of impending doom.
Dahlia counted the minutes. One…two…three…four…five. It had been five minutes since the tunnel had swallowed them whole. She sat perfectly still, looking ahead in her seat, as if breathing would set off an explosion. Looking ahead, she saw a bright square of light in the distance. Huh – she thought – there really is a light at the end of the tunnel.
The car rolled to a stop in front of an entrance that led to an elevator. Alfred calmly opened the passenger door, “Right this way, please.” He gestured to the elevator door. There were no buttons to call the elevator, but that didn't stop him; it seemed to open automatically as soon as he approached. Dahlia looked at her mother – not for comfort – but for an order. A sign. Anything that should hold her back from getting on that elevator. Instead, a hand sticking its sharp nails into her back pushed her forward.
As the elevator doors started to close, Dahlia watched the world outside slide away from view. She felt like an object; she knew she was an object. Dahlia knows too well what happens to objects. They get used. Everything felt heavy, like she was moving through tar.
The doors opened to reveal a grand hallway leading to large black double doors. Alfred gestured for the two ladies to follow him as he swiftly walked down the hallway. As the two doors opened, they revealed a black, moody office space. The large windows seemed to be the only source of light in the room, but their views were obscured by cloud coverage. In the center of the room, there was a long black desk, meticulously organized. Computer screens covered the wall behind the desk.
Suddenly, everything clicked for Dahila. She inwardly cursed herself for being so naive. To trust her mother's words was a mistake in itself, but to think this was just a ‘meeting’, this was a negotiation —a negotiation of her future, of her life. Dahlia was being sold today.
“Please, Lady Tahlia, have a seat. Master Wayne will be with you in a moment.” He held out his hand and motioned toward a small seating area near one of the windows. Mother gracefully sat down. Dahlia was about to do the same when Alfred's voice compelled her to stop.
“Might I suggest, Lady Tahlia, that the young miss be seated outside for this conversation?” Dahlia really wished that Alfred hadnt hadn't said that. She glanced at her mother, Tahlia pursed her lips slightly – shit, Dahlia thought, that was her ‘im seriously considering face’. Tahlia looked to her daughter with a calculating gaze, “I believe that would be… beneficial.” She uttered the word “beneficial” as if she were unsure it was the correct term. “This way, please, young miss.” Alfred led Dahlia through a door different from the one she entered through.
The room was decorated in a similar style to the main office, but it was smaller and seemed to serve the purpose as a meeting room. “I don't believe I ever asked you your name, young miss. I apologize, that was terribly rude of me.” Alfred spoke in a softer voice than the one he used with Tahlia. It was comforting in a way, she supposed.
“My name is Dahlia Al-Ghul.” Dahlia made sure her voice sounded confident. She stood in slight attention and bowed her head. Alfred returned her greeting. She noticed that he did not shake hands, as many Westernized people are accustomed to. She wasn't allowed to shake hands with servants anyway. ‘Princesses do not shake hands with servants, ’ she remembered her mother saying.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dahlia. May I offer some water, tea, or coffee?” Alfred's question broke her out of her thoughts. “May I have some water, please, thank you, Mr. Alfred.” Dahlia does admit that she was quite parched. Of course, she hadn't eaten anything in days, but water would do just fine. “Just Alfred is quite all right, thank you.” He chuckled.
Alfred nodded and left the room, leaving Dahlia to her own thoughts. She looked around the meeting room again. It was bleak, corporate, and clean. There weren't any papers haphazardly left around the table, or anywhere she could see. The only information she could seem to gather about this place was from a logo floating on the TV. Wayne Tower, it read. She must be in the headquarters of Wayne Enterprises.
Dahlia pased around the room looking for any more clues, any hidden weapons. Her mother said not to bring any, but Dahlia wouldn't have obeyed if she knew she was going to be in flipping Batman's building. There was no one that important for her mother to meet in Gotham other than Batman himself.
Dahlia gave up her investigation of the room and sat down at the meeting table. What was the angle, she thought. Her mother has not given her any information or a mission, so it must be a request from a private party. Was Batman after information? Was he after her, or was Batman going to use her for leverage? Would she be a hostage or some prisoner in Bruce’s political games?
Dahlia tapped the nail of her thumb rapidly on the table. It was a habit when she was thinking hard; her mother said it was ignominious, but she had never really grown out of it. Alfred came in holding a tray of 3 drinks and set her water now on a coaster beside her. He gave Dahlia a slight smile before heading out. Dahlia assumed the other two drinks on the tray were meant for her mother and Bruce Wayne.
The ice in Dahlia's glass had melted. She was counting the seconds; currently, she's been in this room for 1 hour, 28 minutes, and 9 seconds. The room was soundproof; she couldn't hear anyone's conversation on the other side. The vents were bolted shut; she wouldn't be able to fit through them anyway. The TV was stuck on the Wayne Tower logo, and there was no other device in this room to hack it. She considered the widows, but she wasn't that stupid.
Dahlia heard a knock on the door; it was firm, short, and sweet. Her mother walked in. Immediately, she could tell that her mother was distressed. Tahlia never showed this on the surface, but she never knocked either. Dahlia stayed seated in her chair as she watched her mother shut the door.
Tahlia seemed to calm, to controlled, to measured. Dahlia knew it was time.
“My darling,” Tahlia leaned over to where her daughter was sitting and kneeled. “You know I love you,” She took both of Dahlias' hands and softly held them. “But I think you also know that I can't protect you anymore.” She squeezed Dahlia's hands tightly, then dropped them as if they were scalding hot. “That man out there, Bruce Wayne, he is your father. He will protect you.” She sharply stood up and grabbed Dahlia's chin.
“Look me in the eyes, Dahlia, and listen to what I'm about to say,” Tahlia said this in Leauge dialect – shit. Dahlia brought her eyes to her mother's, green eyes on green eyes. The same color green that you get from the pit. “You must listen and obey your father. You may disagree with him, but you must listen to his rules. He will train you. You need to cooperate. Do you understand, love?” Tahlia stressed the syllables of understand, it wasnt a question, it was an order.
“Yes, mother,” Dahlia responded. She could tell her mother had been crying; it made her heart break inside. Her mother, Tahlia, was always strong and composed. She was a figure Dahlia looked up to; she was a person Dahlia would die for. Tahlia brushed her daughter's soft, dark brown hair away from her face and planted a kiss on her forehead. “See you soon, my darling girl.” Her voice cracked at the end.
Dahlia watched as her mother walked through those doors. She felt that sense of impending doom return because she knew that her mother would not. Dahlia didn't know what to feel during that moment. She loved her mother, but she felt that she wouldn't miss her.
It felt wrong.
She thinks back to her fleeting memories, when she was younger, when her mother would brush her hair and sing her lullabies to sleep. Dahlia thought back to how her mother was a gentle figure, always kind and caring.
Dahlia thought back to before. Before she 4. Before she was sent away. Before her mother became cruel and unkind. Before the gaps in her memory started to widen. Before her memories were taken. She felt her stomach lurch and drop into a pit of fear. Dahlia had noticed that her memories were few and far between, and each day they were getting farther and fewer. Her mind was clouding. Searching for any memory or piece of information as simple as her name felt like marching through a pit of quicksand.
She could not tell anyone this, though; it was a good way to get herself killed. Or worse. Besides, it meant the conditioning was working well. That's all anyone ever wanted.
Another knock filled the room. Dahlia glanced up to see Alfred calmly shuffle in. “Excuse me, Miss Dahlia, if you are ready, I believe your father would like to meet you.” Alfred quietly said, as if I were a horse who spooked easily at loud sounds. “Of course.” Dahlia agreed. It was time to meet her father; there was no use dwelling on the past right now.
Alfred led her back to the main office. A large, tall man in a sharp black suit stood near the desk. This man was Bruce Wayne, Dahlia assumed.
Bruce looked down at his supposed daughter. She was almost the spitting image of a younger Tahlia, but you could catch a glimpse of Martha. His eyes softened. She was certainly his, like Damian. Hopefully, she would be more agreeable than Damian.
Tahlia had mentioned that she had considerably more psychological conditioning than Damian had – Bruce supposed he would find out what this ‘psychological conditioning’ truly is later. She had also mentioned that she was not fully trained under the League, but rather by another organization in Russia.
Dahlia was small, around 5’0 and maybe 100 pounds, Bruce guessed. That did not exempt her from being a threat; however, he would have to monitor her closer than his other children.
“Hello,” Bruce finally said. He crouched down to Dahlias' level, “I am Bruce Wayne, your father. You may call me Bruce, B, or father, really anything that you want as long as it's appropriate.” He stuck out his hand for a handshake – Dahlia hesitantly returned it – she did not trust this man yet.
“Hello, my name is Dahlia Al-Ghul.” She put a hand on her heart and nodded her head slightly. Bruce returned her greeting. “I shall call you Bruce for now,” Dahlia stated. Bruce didn't mind that; he needed to be patient.
Dahlias could feel her mind drifting again. She felt like she was screaming for a runaway dog to come back. “Do you know of your brother Damian?” Bruce asked. It was an unexpected question, Bruce could tell. He was hesitant to ask because he wasn't sure what she would do, how she would react. “Yes, he is my twin brother. I was under the impression that he was dead.” Dahlia replied, looking straight into Bruce's eyes. She took pride in watching his expression slightly fall into one of guilt, like his hand had been caught in a cookie jar.
So he was testing the waters, she thought.
Bruce took in a sharp breath, getting ready for a painful conversation. “Damian is alive. He lives with me and is the current holder of the Robin mantle.” Bruce looked at Dahlia again, though she stood still and unreadable. Dahlia drifted her gaze to the window. She wasn't very surprised that Damian was alive, or that he was Robin.
Bruce spoke again, more demanding this time, “What did they tell you about this in the League? Did they give you any information on the situation?” He knew he could lose her trust easily if he asked too many questions, not that he had her trust anyway. “I wasnt raised in the League. And I was rarely sent on missions for them.” Dahlia replied coldly. “So then, where were you raised?”
She paused for a moment before answering. She knew about Batman's policies; she knew how he treated people who broke his rules. His own sons. Why would she be treated any differently? She could argue her case, but it would likely fall on deaf ears. She could lie, but it could easily be found out. There was no point to painting herself as a victim; he wouldn't care.
“Listen, Dahlia. I know you come from a dangerous place. A place that I believe is full of evil people who do evil things to kids like you.” Bruce reached out and rested a hand on Dahlia's shoulder. “I know that you have probably committed atrocities, that you have done things that you're not proud of. But you have been raised to think that your actions were right, that it was for a greater cause. I want to help you, Dahlia. I want to give you a better life.”
Bruce held out his hand. It felt like he was offering escape. “But I cant help you, I cant give you a better life, if you don't tell me what's happened. I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that?” Dahlia felt like she was going to throw up. No, she needed to be brave. This man, her father, would help her like he's helped Damian. She slowly reached out her hand. Bruised watched her calculated gaze be replaced by one of uncertainty, of fear.
“I know it can be scary. I know what it's like to live in fear. I will protect you, always. I promise.” Dahlia took his hand. His words felt gentle and genuine. “Okay,” Dahlia replied softly. Not yes, not no, just okay. That was all Bruce needed to hear.