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"Okay, everyone in?" Dick's voice crackled over the Discord call, bright and entirely too cheerful for 9 PM.
"Unfortunately," Damian muttered.
"Language!" Tim chirped. "This is a family-friendly server."
"You literally just put TNT under my house," Jason said flatly.
"That was a prank, Jay. There's a difference."
"There is not—"
"GUYS!" Duke's voice cut through the chaos. "Who put a sign on my door that says 'Beware of the Leopard'?"
"That was me," Steph said proudly. "It's a reference."
"To WHAT?"
"To the fact that I'm a leopard."
"You're not a leopard, Steph."
"I could be. You don't know."
Cass typed in chat: <Cassandra> I am building a sheep farm. Do not touch the sheep.
"Too late," Jason said. "I already named one 'Little Wing.'"
"Jason."
"What? It's a good name. Very meaningful."
"It's your deadname to you!"
"I'm not dead anymore. Stop being dramatic."
The exchange was interrupted by a shrill scream that could only be Damian, followed by the sound of something exploding.
"WHO PUT A CREEPER IN MY HOUSE?"
"That was me," Tim said calmly.
"TIMOTHY."
"Relax, Dami. It's Minecraft. Build another house."
"I WILL BUILD ANOTHER HOUSE OVER YOUR CORPSE."
"Guys," Dick tried again, "can we please just—"
"Dick, you literally just stole my diamond sword."
"I borrowed it! For a minute!"
"It's been forty-five minutes!"
"I have a short attention span!"
On a quiet server far, far away, Bruce Wayne placed a flower pot on a windowsill and stepped back to admire his work.
"Alfred, what do you think of the window boxes?"
Alfred Pennyworth, seated at his own computer in the manor's study (because if Bruce thought he was going to play video games without proper ergonomic support, he had another thing coming), adjusted his reading glasses and peered at the screen.
"Charming, Master Bruce. Though I do believe the blue orchids clash slightly with the oak trim. Might I suggest cornflowers?"
"The cornflowers are for the garden. I'm doing a theme."
"Of course you are, sir."
Bruce zoomed in on the cottage they'd been working on for the past three days: a cozy two-story structure with a wrap-around porch, a proper chimney, and a small stable for the horses Alfred had insisted on taming.
"This is nice," Bruce said quietly. "This is... really nice."
"It is, sir. Peaceful."
Neither of them mentioned the other server. Neither of them mentioned the constant pings from Discord, the notifications of explosions, the screenshots of increasingly creative acts of domestic terrorism being exchanged between their children.
They were choosing not to mention it.
"I think the roof needs another layer," Bruce said.
"I concur. Shall I fetch more stone?"
"I've got some. Hold on."
On Bruce's screen, a small pixelated figure in grey armor, who looked remarkably like Batman, if Batman had a pickaxe and a questionable sense of interior design, began climbing a ladder to the roof.
Alfred's figure, a dignified gentleman in a white coat and blue pants, followed at a more sedate pace.
"Do you think they're okay?" Bruce asked, not looking up.
"I believe 'okay' is a relative term, Master Bruce. I received a message from Master Dick approximately ten minutes ago that simply read 'help' and then a series of crying emojis."
"So they're having fun."
"I think that's the technical term, yes."
Bruce placed another block. "I should probably check on them."
"You should not, sir."
"I'm their father. I have a responsibility—"
"You have a responsibility to maintain your own sanity. Master Timothy is perfectly capable of blowing up Master Damian's house without your supervision. He's been doing it for years."
Bruce paused. "He has?"
"Not in Minecraft, obviously. But the sentiment remains."
There was a long, comfortable silence. Then Bruce laughed: a real, genuine laugh that he reserved for moments like this, when the weight of the world wasn't on his shoulders.
"Remember when I taught you to play this game?" he asked.
"I remember you spending two hours trying to figure out how to craft a crafting table, yes."
"I was learning."
"Of course you were, sir."
"Alfred."
"Yes, Master Bruce?"
"Thank you. For this."
Alfred's cursor paused over a block of stone. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual.
"It's my pleasure, sir. Truly."
Across the void of cyberspace, the chaos continued.
"JASON, IF YOU LAVA MY SHEEP I WILL—"
"You'll what, demon brat? Cry?"
"DIE SCREAMING."
"Ooh, scary."
"GUYS," Dick yelled, "CAN WE JUST—"
"Dick, your skin is literally a hotdog."
"It's a costume, Jason, it's funny—"
"It's ugly and I hate it."
"THE HOTDOG IS OFFENDED."
"Please stop talking about the hotdog—"
A message appeared in the chat:
<Damian> Jason, meet me in the arena. Bring your best armor.
<Jason> Oh, it's ON.
<Tim> I'm going to film this.
<Steph> I'm going to BET on this.
<Duke> I'm going to make popcorn.
<Cass> I am watching the sheep. Do not explode the sheep.
<Jason> No promises.
On the peaceful server, Bruce had just finished the chimney.
"Perfect," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"Quite," Alfred agreed. "Though I do believe we're missing something."
"What?"
"A flag. Every respectable cottage needs a flag."
Bruce considered this. "You're right. What color?"
"I was thinking black and gold. For the manor."
"Alfred, that's perfect."
They spent the next twenty minutes debating the exact shade of gold (mustard? marigold? ochre?), and for a little while, the world outside—the chaos, the crime, the screaming children in a Discord call, faded away.
It was just them. Father and son. Building something beautiful.
Even if it was made of pixels.