Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Their eyes were different now.

Richard still looked at him, still smiled at him.

His smile was sad and strained. Forced. He didn’t treat Damian any differently than before. Perhaps he was even a bit softer (or was that just resignation).

But his eyes. . .

There was something - a brightness - that was just . . .

It was gone.

A shadow. A dark recess. A bitter knowing in Richard’s eyes that told Damian that even though his . . . his brother (his pseudo-father) was determined to still go through the motions of their previous relationship, was still determined to care for him -

He would never look at Damian the same way again.

Drake . . .

Tim. . .

Timothy still looked at him, still smiled at him.

His mouth was a thin, cold line, courteous and impersonal. There was nothing gentle or happy about it.

Damian realized in shock that he had perhaps become accustomed to seeing something softer in Timothy's expressions.

But it was still a familiar smile nonetheless. One Damian had not seen since he was ten.

Not since . . .

Tim falling from the dinosaur like Danyal falling from the wall. Falling from a cut grappling line because Damian simply. Could not. Learn his lesson.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Timothy’s gaze was just as bland and impersonal as his smile.

But so sharp. Always watching.

Assessing. Assessing. Assessing.

All previous warmth, the hard-won hints of awkward affection . . . .gone.

“Guess I’m not that special.” Timothy said once, off hand, apropos of nothing.

Timothy still looked at him.

In fact, Timothy refused to turn his back to him. . .

Please. . . please. . .

I am not the same person I was 8 years ago.

I am the same person I was a week ago . . . .

Todd still looked at him, still smiled at him.

Or, well, not really.

It was no smile at all. It was a baring of teeth. A show of fangs.

Todd was suddenly around more often, though only for short periods of time. He would come every few days, look in on them and disappear again.

Damian didn’t understand it until he overheard Todd speaking to Timothy down in the Cave.

“--even just playing around or jokingly?”

“No.” Timothy sounded tired and a little exasperated.

“No daggers thrown at your head or your unprotected back for ‘situational awareness training’ or some shit?”

“I’d hope he’s too smart now for something that ridiculously obvious.” Timothy drawled, darkly amused.

Todd scoffed. Damian could hear him pacing restlessly while Timothy’s fingers danced over the keyboard.

When Timothy spoke again it was subdued, “He hasn’t tried anything in literal years. And there’s nothing for him to gain from it now.” an awkward pause and then, even quieter, “Not that it isn’t appreciated, but . . . You – don’t need to hover. . . ”

“He’s going to be twice your size when he’s done growing. He’s almost there now.” Todd’s voice, gruff, unsettled.

“We’ve all done things in the past– “ Timothy started dully as though reciting something he’d told himself (or that had been told to him) many times before, but Todd cut him off.

“It’s not the same! You know it’s not the same.”

Timothy didn’t answer.

Unlike Richard and Timothy, there was no shadow, no veil, in Todd’s eyes.

He’d never been one to dissemble or hide what he was feeling.

Todd’s gaze was openly hostile. Openly distrusting.

Openly disgusted.

His father . . . his father wouldn’t look at him.

His father’s eyes were hard, frozen spheres staring out the office window into the garden, staring at the files in front of him, staring at some distant point over Damian’s head, anywhere but at Damian.

His jaw was a hard clenched line.

Damian tried to explain. The story spilling out of him raggedly as though he were begging. Tears slipping out despite how hard he tried to rein them in.

It was a mistake.

He hadn’t thought . . .

He hadn’t meant. . . .

It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

Damian was sorry! So sorry!

His father stared out the window, every muscle in his body taut with the rage he only ever let show as Batman, never as Bruce Wayne.

Damian wasn’t sure his father heard a word he said.

Chapter Text

Talia let nothing show on her face as she accepted the cold, stiff little body wrapped in white linen into her arms.

She nodded graciously at the man who had followed her orders to both slay her child and discreetly smuggle the body back to her.

The moment she turned her back on him her two Shadows descended on the man. His screams followed her as she carried her precious burden deeper into their compound.

Her Shadows would ensure that he would beg for death long before it was granted.

She allowed herself the weakness of a few tears as she carried her youngest to the Pit.

She had not carried him within her body when he was developing. He had not been some hidden prize that swelled her belly. Instead, she’d watched him develop day by day with her own eyes. Rapturously.

Her heartbeat had never been his lullabye but her voice had been known to him from the day of his conception until she’d removed him from the artificial womb.

She hesitated as she knelt before the bubbling green liquid. Part of her wished to punish herself by pulling back the linens and looking upon her little one’s pale, dead face, to see the wounds inflicted on his small body. But a larger part of her shrunk, shuddering from the thought.

She could not bear it.

She gently submerged him into the waters.

At the first spasmodic jerk of the linen clad body, she wrenched him out of the pits and back up into her arms, wrestled his thrashing form to the floor and ripped the linen from off his face. He choked, gagged, coughed up the green waters and then screamed, mouth stretched open hideously wide!

Talia kept the linens wrapped tightly around his body, pinned him with her arms and legs and held him as he kicked and grunted and thrashed and fought and shrieked, gnashing his teeth at her and howling.

“Shhh. Shhhh.” She whispered into his drenched hair, rocking him back and forth, her words unheard beneath his screams, “Shhh. My love. My lamb. Habibi. Mother is here. Mother is so sorry. So sorry.”

Maddie let nothing show on her face as she walked steadily through the GIW compound, a thermos cradled in her arm.

She was a familiar, trusted face and no one looked twice in her direction.

She stopped before the laboratory doors and clicked the intercom button.

“Name and purpose?” A bored voice intoned.

“Dr. Maddie Fenton with a new specimen.” she said crisply.

The door swung open.

Maddie stepped inside, keeping her eyes forward, unable to make herself look beyond her objective.

There were only three lab personnel. One of them left their station to greet her.

“Dr. Fenton– “ He started.

In one smooth motion, Maddie set the thermos down on a nearby table and fired the weapon she’d kept tucked beneath it. The man’s chest exploded and the rest of him toppled to the floor in a spray of gore and burned, blackened meat.

The other two lab personnel only had time to look up before Maddie took the next one with a head-shot.

“H-hey!” screamed the last, stumbling back in shock before Maddie shot him in the face, splattering his brains in charred ruin across the wall and leaving his body to fold to the floor.

Holstering her weapon, Maddie rushed to the steel slab and the still, cold body that lay splayed there.

She immediately gagged.

She staggered back momentarily, doubling over, covering her mouth, choking back the urge to vomit. The sight of the stretched open mouth, empty eyes and bloodless skin seared forever into her mind.

Doing to her psyche what the sight of the other men’s guts could not.

She had not carried this child in her belly. She had not nursed him at her breast, but she had claimed him as her own with her whole soul, nurtured his mind and body with all of herself and she would defend him to her dying breath.

She fought back the panic and horror and grief and threw herself at the control panel, releasing the anti-ecto field and the cuffs on his wrists and ankles. She quickly undid the clamps and surgical spreaders keeping his body cavities open, hurling them in impotent fury.

Grabbing her fake thermos, wrestling at the lid with cold trembling fingers, she ripped out 2 large syringes of bright green, glowing liquid. Her vision was blurry and she blinked back the stinging tears as she attached a large bore needle to one of the syringes and stuck the second syringe between her teeth to hold it out of the way.

With a sob, she jammed the first needle directly into her sons exposed, not-beating heart and plunged the ectoplasm into him.

Please don’t let me be too late! Please don’t let me be too late!

The first violent convulsion and her son’s back arched unnaturally, causing the needle to pierce through the heart like soft meat. Gritting her teeth on the syringe, Maddie climbed up onto her son’s naked, flayed body and pinned his failing arms beneath her knees, holding him still with all her weight. She finished delivering the first dose and tossed the empty syringe, screwing the needle onto the second syringe, ignoring her own clumsy, trembling fingers, and plunged the needle into her child’s heart.

This time he threw his head back and shrieked. Eyes still flat and milky in death.

But something was happening now. Green was beginning to flow around him. Through him.

Maddie toppled gracelessly off of him and tried to fold his flayed skin back into place before grabbing a white linen sheet - probably the sheet they’d meant to cover his body with when they were done- and wrapped it around him, pulling him off the steel table and into her arms.

She staggered back at the weight of him, off balance as he began to thrash and scream.

Sobbing, Maddie fell back into a corner and cradled him to her, pinning his arms with hers, pinning his kicking legs with her own.

“Shhh. Shhhh.” She moaned into his hair, rocking him back and forth, “Shhh. My baby. My Danny. My sweet boy. Mom is here. Mom is sorry. She’s so sorry.”

Chapter Text

Talia’s sons were perfect.

Brilliant. Athletic.

They learned so quickly. Soaking up knowledge and surpassing every milestone set before them.

Their manners were impeccable. Their cunning unmatched.

They understood the importance of their heritage.

Of their mission.

And Talia was not a fool. They were not identical, not simply two copies of the same blade to strike in an indistinguishable manner. She refused to treat them as such. She was sure they would differentiate themselves with appropriate specialties and cut flawlessly in their own unique ways.

By the time they were six, Talia could see Damian would excel in weaponry with a single-minded focus while Danyal showed a preference for brawling. Damian perhaps had an edge on Danyal in physical prowess but Danyal’s mind for the sciences was breathtaking. Truly taking after his father.

He wanted to know the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of everything in the world and devoured all knowledge laid before him.

Her sons were the proud future of the League.

They were seven when they stood before her father and received the orders for their very first assignment.

“Yes, Grandfather.” Damian said immediately with a low bow.

“But why?” Danyal’s young voice rang clearly in the suddenly still and silent hall.

Talia trembled.

Bruce was beyond livid. Beyond rage.

A small child, his child, a son he’d never known and never known to mourn had been murdered and his other son had all but committed the act.

And Bruce was not a fool.

He could smell Talia’s influence and deceit all over the atrocity.

There was a zero percent chance Talia had not used the Lazarus pits to revive the child and so Bruce had gone to her immediately, desperately.

They were screaming at each other. Bruce had not even attempted to control himself. He’d smashed the decor in her current abode and put his fist through a wall.

“IT WAS ONE OR BOTH!” Talia roared back at him, scratching at his face with her nails, as out of control as he was, “I sacrificed Damian to give Danyal a normal life! I sacrificed Danyal to teach Damian that the only way out of the League was DEATH!”

Bruce grabbed her clawing hands and flung her into the wall, “WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS MY SON?”

Talia laughed at him, tears in her eyes, “You’re too late! You’re too late!” she crooned raggedly, “The town I left him in was destroyed over a year ago. There’s nothing left there. Nothing.”

“Where?” Bruce demanded.

“Amity Park, Illinoise.” Talia gasped out, “I tried to go there after. . . afterwards. But –

–He wouldn’t let me in.”

Chapter Text

Dick felt like his head was spinning.

His thoughts were a cacophony of self-doubt, self-recrimination and desperate denial that circled around and around and kept getting louder and louder.

He’d been lying to himself.

He’d been willfully blind.

No. No. Surely, he just didn’t understand. . .

When Damian had first come to the manor, Dick had known —had been completely cognizant and undeniably aware —of how violent and lethal the boy could be. He’d known that Damian’s hair-trigger was an accident waiting to happen.

But he’d told himself that Damian’s twisted upbringing had made those behaviors a necessity for his survival. Such violence had just been a normal and expected part of Damian’s life.

Sparring sessions had been more like beatings. Tests of ability were more like attempted murder.

Damian would need time and gentleness and understanding to unlearn such things. To realize he was finally safe and didn’t need to fight the family that wanted to embrace him.

So Dick hadn’t been happy, but he’d tried to be understanding when Damian had turned those lethal abilities on Tim.

Surely such behavior was considered a ‘normal interaction’ with a fellow child-soldier in Damian’s worldview. It wasn’t really an attempt to kill so much as it was an attempt to test and to understand.

Tim was nearer Damian’s age then Dick. It may have even been Damian’s own fumbling way of reaching out.

Damian had been ten. He was just a child.

How would he possibly be expected to know what ‘death’ and ‘killing’ really were and what they meant?

Except—

Except Dick had been making excuses, hadn’t he?

Damian had been a cold-blood killer since he was eight years old. And not just a killer, one that would turn on his own family, and on those who were younger, weaker and smaller than him.

Dick had been making excuses and Damian had gone after Tim.

Dick had been lying to himself. He’d turned a blind eye to attempted murder to ‘keep the peace’, to ‘keep the family together’.

It had been too hard to hear and so Dick had silenced a victim.

And now — Now he’d been quiet for days since the bloody revelation of Damian’s dead little brother. Not asking. Not rocking the boat. Being quiet to keep the peace. To keep the family together.

His thoughts were like an acid storm in his brain.

He couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“We need to talk.” The words were thick and bitter in Dick’s mouth.

Damian didn’t ask about what. He kept his eyes on the floor.

Dick didn’t say anything more for a long time. He just paced back and forth, restless, unable to keep still through the screaming in his brain.

“I just . . . I don’t know what to say or where to start.”

Damian remained still, at attention, eyes on his feet.

Did he stand like that while Ra’s dressed him down before punishing him?

Dick’s heart ached. “I love you. You know I love you. You have to know I love you. I want . . . I want you to be happy and safe. But–.” he trailed off helplessly.

Damian waited.

“Did you do it?” Dick asked finally, weakly, his voice faltering on the words.

Damian wet his lips, “I am afraid you will need to be more specific.”

From anyone else, Dick would have taken those words as flippant or sarcastic. From Damian it was an actual plea.

“Did you have a brother?” Dick felt his words wobble as he forced himself to ask the next part, “And did you kill him?”

Damian breathed softly for a moment, “Yes.” Hushed, matching Dick’s tone, “Yes, I had a brother. Danyal. And . . . y-yes. Yes, I did.”

“Why?” The word came out a sob. Begging for an answer that would clear this all up. Make it all a big misunderstanding. Make it make sense.

Make Damian not a killer.

Damian raised his head, “Danyal was not fit for–”

Dick dropped his face into his hands and Damian trailed off with a stutter.

Damian waited a moment and then tried again, “There can only be one heir to the Demon–”

Dick screamed into his hands, muffled but still shocking Damian into silence.

They were both quiet for a long moment. Damian’s heart pounding and Dick with his face buried in his hands. Dick’s shoulders were shaking as he wept silently.

Dick finally swallowed hard and raised his face, eyes red, face blotchy, but composure calm even as more tears streaked down his cheeks.

“Tim.” Dick rasped finally, “When you — You weren’t just testing him, were you? You really actually meant to kill him. You would have killed him.”

“. . . Yes.” Damian whispered.

It was like something precious and vital drained from Dick’s very soul. His shoulders slumped and the world around him became gray and cold. He felt like a husk. A shell of himself.

Like something inside was broken and would never be the same.

He loved this little boy.

He loved this little boy.

Right now he couldn’t stand the sight of him.

Chapter Text

10-year-old Danyal watched the Fentons avidly over what passed for breakfast in this place: over-sweetened oats and grains with colorful sugar bits sopped in milk.

The small family was talking over each other, reaching across each other’s bodies and personal spaces to grab at things on the table. Dr. Maddie was fiddling with some electronic equipment and saying something to Danyal that he wasn’t quite listening to. Dr. Jack was making wide expressive hand gestures at his daughter who had her nose squinched up at him and was replying to him dismissively while also trying to talk to Danyal over her mother.

The Fentons were . . . kind.

They were kind people.

Boisterous. Strong willed. And sometimes - sometimes really silly.

But affectionate. Freely affectionate.

Danyal accepted it, and reciprocated appropriately, because plenty of missions called for integration into a foreign societies for extended periods and he would do what needed to be done to maintain this new identity.

Danyal knew how to blend in. He smiled. He laughed. He feigned interest in the hobbies of his peer groups and played with them and didn’t stab them in their eyes when they were mean to him. He accepted the cosseting and buffeting of sister-Jasmine while arguing with her in a manner appropriate for siblings.

And the Fenton parents maintained no polite distance. They seemed to want to absorb him, to enfold him into their small tribe. They ruffled his hair, patted him on the shoulder, hugged him and swung him around in their arms, whirling him off his feet.

He’d kept waiting for the flash of a blade or the burn of poison.

But nothing ever came.

There had been no tests or traps. No conditioning or painful corrections. Danyal had been so alarmed after such prolonged peace that he made certain to keep up his training in secret. He did not want to grow soft and then have someone catch him off guard.

Despite all his knowledge of how League families operated and all his paranoia and all his hypervigilance, his investigations into the Fentons led nowhere. Dr. Maddie seemed to be related to mother in some distant way but she did not keep to any League traditions, did not seem to know the language or the signs.

Perhaps mother had chosen them specifically for their ignorance. For their kindness. A soft place to land.

She had not been clear in her final letter to him. The small curt missive that Dr. Maddie had given him when he awoke in this place.

You are free from the burdens of your birthright and may choose how you wish to proceed. Do not come back. Scrawled succinctly in his mother’s flowing script. No parting words of affection. No promises.

Just exile.

For a failure so severe that the League had disposed of him.

But a failure he couldn’t recall, that he hadn’t even known had happened.

He’d wracked his brains over the last two years. Going over every training assignment, every mission in as much excruciating detail as he could remember.

But he still did not know what terrible offense he had committed.

At what point had mother and Damian decided it was time to be rid of him? That he was beyond any hope of being a serviceable member of the League?

He didn’t know.

Danyal had waited for these long two years but no more instructions had come.

“And this one is for Danyal!” Dr. Jack said loudly, dropping a bulky, over large wrist brace down on the table hard enough that Danyal’s cereal bowl jumped.

Danyal didn’t bother asking what it was, “Thank you, Dr. Jack.” he said dutifully.

“No problemo, Danno!” Dr. Jack’s chair screeched back from the table as he stood up, “And you can call me ‘dad’!” He grinned brightly.

“Now, Jack,” Dr. Maddie corrected kindly, “Remember that Danyal doesn’t have to call us anything except what he’s comfortable with.”

“What?” Dr. Jack blinked, startled, “Well, of course, honey! But what if I don't tell him he can call me dad one morning and he thinks I’ve changed my mind?” Jack ruffled Danyal’s hair.

Dr. Maddie chuckled indulgently, “He knows you won’t change your mind, dear.”

But Danyal froze mid-bite.

Damian had changed his mind.

Mother had changed her mind.

“Now let’s go kick around the old Fenton Fiz-ball Blaster 3000!” Dr. Jack held up a misshapen football. Or ‘soccer’ ball, Danyal reminded himself, eyeing the monstrosity dubiously.

Danyal took his bowl to the sink, leaving the clunky wristband on the table. “Perhaps later, Dr. Jack. I am continuing a research project today.”

“Anything your ol’ man can help with?” Dr. Jack asked eagerly.

“I will let you know.”

“Is it about that Martian-Manhunter guy again?” sister-Jasmine asked suspiciously. “Because I’m still not sure I believe he’s an actual space alien.”

“No.” Danyal kept his tone bland, “I have finished researching the Justice League. I am more interested in the history of Gotham city. It is under a terrible curse.”

“A curse?” Dr. Maddie hemmed, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “That can’t be right. There’s no scientific basis for ‘curses’. . . “

“Now, dear,” Dr. Jack started almost sternly, “Wasn’t Aunt Alisha nearly eaten by Mothman after she tried to take that gold coin from Charles Island?”

“Aunt Alisha found gold?” Sister-Jasmine asked raptly.

“Connecticut pirate gold!” Dr. Jack exclaimed, “The locals warned her it was cursed!”

“Honey, it couldn’t have been Mothman. Mothman lives in West Virginia . . . “ Dr. Maddie pointed out.

“Exactly!”

“Oh, so you don’t believe in curses but you believe in Mothman?” Sister-Jasmine snarked at her mother.

Gloating silently as the three of them devolved into something entirely too good-natured to be called an argument, Danyal slipped away to his room and opened his laptop.

The Fentons were so kind.

And . . . and Danyal was even starting to enjoy the warm way they enveloped him. The way he could walk down the hallway and see so many family pictures with him in them.

The way he felt like he might even . . . .belong with them.

So now was the time to act.

Mother’s letter had said Danyal could choose how to proceed and she’d failed to send any new information or instructions.

Danyal would choose.

He had been investigating father for over six months - couching his investigation as interest in the Justice League and SuperHeroes in general. A common and palatable hobby for a boy his age in this society.

He’d started out knowing only his father’s name and alias and that he was a formidable warrior.

He had learned much since then.

Mother had never told him that father did not kill. She’d never told him that father was a member of the Justice League. A founding member even. Danyal had been skeptical at first, believing that father was certainly on a long-term undercover mission for the LoA and that he would soon overthrow the Justice League.

But that was before Danyal investigated the other members of the Justice League. Maybe some of them could have been fooled for a short time. But Wonder Woman had her lasso of truth and Martian Manhunter could literally read minds.

To be thorough, Danyal had decided he would also need to investigate Bruce Wayne as well. And in order to do so without drawing any suspicion, he’d fed the Fentons the line about studying the cursed city of Gotham, of which the Wayne family were founding members. (If he needed to, he could always muddy the waters by telling them he was studying Dudleytown as well.)

And the more Danyal investigated Batman's vigilantism and Bruce Wayne’s charitable works in Gotham city, the more sure he was.

Father did not follow the creed of the League of Assassins.

They were possibly even enemies.

It explained so much!

If father was on the outs with the League of Assassins, perhaps that was why he had never visited Danyal and Damian!

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he hadn’t been allowed.

But now Danyal was on the outs with the League as well.

And possibly . . . possibly, father might agree to take him in!

The Fentons were so nice. So warm and welcoming to him.

But . . . if Danyal could meet his father. . .

He would be where he belonged. . .

He excitedly cued up the latest news segment featuring Bruce Wayne. The title promised a shocking new surprise. It seemed to be a very formal interview, Danyal noted with interest. Richard was there. Timothy as well, though Danyal noted fondly that Timothy looked even more robotic than usual.

Danyal hadn’t allowed himself to imagine meeting them yet- his father’s proteges. He hoped they would like him.

They weren’t killers like Damian. . .

His father was making a speech about the family business and the Wayne legacy in Gotham. It was vaguely informative but mostly general nice-sounding, fluff. Danyal took notes, frowning at the screen.

“Our family continues to grow and grow stronger. . . “

Father was obviously getting at something, gearing up to make some big announcement.

“. . .And so I’d like to introduce to you my youngest son. . . “

Danyal’s breath caught violently in his throat.

“. . .. Damian Wayne. . . .”

Black hair, green eyes and a terrible scowl flashed across the screen but Danyal’s vision was already spotty and blurring. He threw himself backwards violently, tipping the chair, slamming to the floor on his back. He crawled frantically on tingling, floppy arms to the nearest waste can and vomited, retching uncontrollably until his stomach felt like it would crawl out his esophagus. His vision fuzzed again with the force of his emesis and he collapsed next to the waste basket, ears ringing.

His chest hurt. It hurt. It hurt. . .

Numb hands flailed at his painful chest, searching fruitlessly for the end of the blade.

He couldn't breathe!

A voice rang, tinny and hateful and familiar, through Danyal’s speakers.

Danyal slammed his hands over his ears and curled up in a ball, clenching his jaw and pursing his lips and digging his face into the carpeted floor so he could scream and scream and not be heard by the arguing and laughing people below.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, only that he was shaking and exhausted when it was over and his laptop was autoplaying some commercial for dish detergent.

Danyal crawled into the bathroom, panting with exertion. He forced himself determinedly to his feet. He rinsed his mouth out, brushed his teeth and washed his face, ignoring how red and watery his eyes were, how hot and blotchy his cheeks were and how his breath came in ragged sobs. He brushed his hair instead of punching the mirror. He put on some shorts and tennis shoes instead of throwing his laptop against the wall.

He plastered a smile onto his face instead of screaming some more and pounded loudly down the stairs.

“Hey, Dr. . . D. . Dad! Hey Dad!” Danny shouted from the bottom of the stairs, causing the rest of his family to go quiet and look at him.

“Hey Dad!” Danny yelled again, proud when his voice didn’t crack or wobble at all even though he felt like his nose might still be running. “Let’s go kick that ball around.”

Maddie stared at Danny with wide, teary eyes and Jazz was smiling ecstatically.

Jack lit up like he’d just become king of the world, flying to his feet, “Let’s go, son!”

Chapter Text

“I do not see why this is necessary.” 10-year-old Damian huffed contemptuously.

“Hmm?” Richard ignored him from his spot down on the gym mat where he was currently twisted into something akin to a pretzel.

“I was trained from infancy by masters of the art of war.” Damian told him scathingly, “The regimen was designed to push one past all physical and mental limits. Certainly much more taxing than anything a common entertainer would be familiar with.”

Damian crossed his arms and tried to bury the uneasy prickle of self-consciousness, like a burr in his soul. He had been bred and raised for battle, there was no possibility that such an idle, spoiled and insouciant person was superior to him.

“Is that so?” Richard continued to grin serenely as he lazily rolled from his last stretch into a full hand stand and then slowly bent his back unnaturally and lowered his feet till they rested on his own shoulders. “Then you should pick this up easily.”

Damian ground his teeth and said nothing as Richard rolled into another ridiculously impossible pose.

This couldn’t be much different than yoga, Damian reasoned grumpily. He had no reason to feel as though his whole stomach was in knots. If this idiot could do it, Damian would certainly ascend beyond him without difficulty.

Without fail.

He. Could. Not. Fail.

Not after their disastrous first meeting. It was true that Damian had managed to land a few paltry strikes on his Father’s chosen son but that encounter had quickly ended with Damian humiliated, gagged and bound in cords.

Why would Richard be willing to train with Damian after such a catastrophic loss? Damian himself wouldn’t have accepted such a pathetic student.

This was all very suspicious when he considered it.

This whole scenario could even be a set up: a ruse in order to disgrace and shame Damian once more in front of Father and show Father how weak and unworthy Damian really was. . .

Richard blithely popped to his feet, “Seriously. I bet you’re a natural.”

And he said it with such confident surety that Damian was momentarily caught off guard.

“D-do not condescend to me!” Damian snapped finally.

But he followed Richard onto the mat.

“I do not see why this is necessary.” 11-year-old Damian perched primly on the ratty couch in the rundown apartment in Crime Alley. He curled his lip at the firearm on the small coffee table in front of him, refusing to touch it.

“Why what is necessary?” Todd didn’t look up from where he sat beside Damian, disassembling his own weapon with practiced ease, “Knowing how to shoot? Knowing the difference between types of guns? Knowing how to care for and maintain your weapon?”

“I know how to use a firearm. I simply do not see the point. Father has renounced such weapons and so shall I.” Damian turned his nose up at the pistol.

“Never know when one might come in handy. . . “ Todd shrugged mildly.

“And yet, thus far, Father and his household have prevailed without.” Damian retorted waspishly.

Todd snorted, “You know Alfie has a shotgun in his quarters and a bunch of other guns hidden all over the manor.”

Damian straightened, eyes flying to Todd, “He most certainly does not! Father would never allow such a thing!”

Todd shot him an amused side-eye, not even saying a word and Damian wilted.

“I suppose even Father has not the power to stay Alfred’s hand. . . “ he muttered dubiously.

“Look at you!” Todd mocked, “Already figured out the pecking order and everything!”

“Silence, you buffoon!” Damian snapped and reached for the pistol. “I am more than capable of using a handgun. . . .”

“Then take it apart and get to cleaning.”

“Tt.” Damian took the grip in one hand and reached for the bottle of oil.

“Safety check first!” Todd barked immediately, “Treat all guns as if they are loaded and ready to fire. Make sure the safety is on, drop the mag and check the chamber!”

“I am not an infant!”

“We practice firearm safety in this house, Brat! And you will treat Gertrude with respect!”

Damian paused, flabbergasted. He reexamined the gun, “Her name is Gertrude?” he asked in disbelief.

“I do not see why this is necessary.” 12-year-old Damian took the video game controller gingerly.

“Just try it out.” Timothy encouraged, “You might like it.”

“Highly debatable.” Damian muttered, hiding his nerves.

He’d been watching the others play and at least had some idea of the goals of the game as well as the abilities of the characters.

But aside from their individual preferences and the generally aesthetic of the characters, he had little to no basis on how to select an appropriate character for himself.

He chose the blue-haired male with the cape and the sword.

Damian was well-versed in computers and technology but he’d never used a video game controller before and his fingers felt unusually odd and clumsy.

Timothy gave no quarter.

And rightly so.

Damian would not have tolerated Timothy holding back.

Still, round after round, his avatar met a grisly end at the hands of a lean, ninja-esque character with blond hair, blue clothing and a white head covering.

Damian found himself glancing uncertainly at Timothy more and more from the corner of his eye, shoulders hunching.

He breathed evenly and told himself that he knew Timothy was not mocking him. He knew Timothy was not judging him for not being expert at the game. Timothy was even muttering encouragement and surprised praise once in a while.

But Damian felt more and more frustrated, more and more foolish until finally, as his character shot offscreen once more, he slammed the controller down, “I should gut you!” he snarled furiously.

And was instantly aware of the way Timothy’s muscles went rigid, of the sudden thick wall of tension between them–

“. . . i-in the game!” Damian found himself stuttering out stupidly and then flushed in embarrassment at his own fumbling.

Two beats of silence passed.

A small eternity.

Damian didn’t dare move or breathe.

Timothy’s rigid posture slowly melted back into his relaxed slump, “I’m sure you will in a couple more rounds.”

Damian took a slow, soundless breath and blew it out, “Then I shall try again.” He reached for the controller, glad he had not damaged it.

“We can play something else.” Timothy offered easily without looking at him.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Damian turned on him with narrowed eyes, “I am becoming accustomed to this play style. I will not allow you to rob me of the progress I have made, especially when I know you simply mean to run me over next!”

“How’d you know I was going to bring out MarioKart?” Timothy looked impressed.

“You have become slothful, Timothy.” Damian scolded, “Predictable. And it shall be your downfall.”

He chose the blue-haired swordsman again.

13-year-old Damian held the bicycle helmet dubiously between his hands. “This cannot be necessary. I am Robin!” he spat the words and then immediately winced, his shoulders tightening.

He flicked an anxious glance at Timothy, concerned that he had misstepped, but the other boy did not seem to react to the statement. Tentatively, Damian pressed his point.

“We do not traverse Gotham’s skyscape in the night or give battle to our foes in such equipment! Surely bicycle helmets are beneath us!”

“Wasn’t my call.” Timothy told him glumly, “Especially for your first ride.” Timothy fastened the clasp of his own helmet almost sulkily and Damian knew it was a concession to Damian’s pride and that he otherwise would have gone without.

Damian still might have attempted to go without, except. . .

“If you please, Master Damian.” Alfred ordered smoothly from a speaker near the driveway.

Sulking himself, Damian reluctantly donned the helmet and kneepads and Timothy passed him the new black and green skateboard.

The one he and Timothy had purchased together for Damian after Damian had finally agreed to accompany Timothy while skateboarding.

Neither of them broke any bones that afternoon, but not for lack of trying.

Alfred could force them to wear helmets. . . but he couldn't stop them from leaping down flights of stairs or into dry canals or accidentally into traffic that one time.

Richard raced ahead, howling joy into the night, barely audible over the thunderous cacophony of the barrelling locomotive beneath them. Todd and Timothy were hot on his heels and Damian raced after them, heart pounding, the shudder of the huge engine shivering up his legs as they leapt from a northbound freightcar onto a southbound one as it whipped past. Damian’s hair and cape flipped wildly around him as they flew across trains and carriages on whim, the city a blur around them.

No plan, no real destination in mind.

As the sun lit the horizon, they found themselves in a large industrial trainyard in the middle of nowhere.

Richard thought it would be fun to walk back to Gotham but Damian suggested they could rent horses instead. There was some back and forth discussion but it was all moot as Timothy had already called them a cab. Their ride was still a ways out so Todd insisted they stop to have breakfast at the small mom and pop diner across the road.

It was barely dawn but their presence still managed to cause a stir.

Richard grinned and waved casually at the small crowd of locals peering curiously in at them through the windows, while Todd shoveled food into his mouth and Timothy gulped coffee and played with his phone.

“None of this was necessary.” 14-year-old Damian sighed into his tea, almost fondly.






It was late.

The only light in the room was the flickering of the television screen but 15-year-old Damian wasn’t sure if any of them were still watching the movie. Someone had even turned the sound down.

Over on the recliner, Todd was still facing the television screen but his eyes were lidded and his gaze was glassy.

Timothy was sprawled out in a twist of limbs on the loveseat. His phone had dropped from his hand to lay forlornly on the floor. His head was crooked back at an awkward angle, mouth wide and probably drooling.

Richard sat at one end of the larger sofa and Damian had claimed the rest of it as his own. He had long since curled onto his side on the couch, a blanket over him.

The rain made a pleasant patter against the windows.

He didn’t realize his eyes had closed until he felt Richard’s fingers card through his hair. Only his rigid self-control kept him from flying upright like a started cat at that first touch.

Damian remained still, kept his breathing even and Richard’s fingers continued to weave gently through his hair, scratching softly at his scalp.

Todd let out a quiet snore.

Richard hummed a faint tune softly, sleepily, his fingers threading through Damian’s hair again and again.

Something warm and almost painful shuddered in Damian’s chest.

This is necessary.

They are necessary.

. . . You. . . were . . . necessary. . .

7-year-old Damian lay with his head in Danyal’s lap.

His breath wheezed harshly in his chest and snot dribbled from his nose. His eyes burned like the bleeding lash marks on his back.

Danyal lay another cool, moist cloth against his back, humming softly the notes of the lullaby their mother used to sing to them when they were much smaller.

Damian didn’t understand.

No one had come to bring them any numbing medicine yet.

Thus far, Danyal was the only person who had even come to look in on Damian, or comfort him, or even see if he was still alive.

Damian’s chest seized with hurt and anguish and he reached out a grasping hand without looking.

Danyal caught his hand immediately. Held it. Squeezed it.

“We will leave here one day.” Damian promised in a harsh whisper, gulping back a sob. “We will go far away. Far enough that no one will ever find us again.”

“The moon.” murmured Danyal.

“Yes.” Damian decided with a sniffle and an angry nod, “We will go there and build our own empire. We will look down upon the Earth and make all those who oppose us suffer.”

Danyal’s fingers smoothed rhythmically through his hair.

“You are going to be okay–“ Danyal whispered, so softly but with steel behind his words, “I won’t let them hurt you again.”

Damian fell into restless sleep, Danyal’s humming following him down and down–

… and down. . .

16-year-old Damian sat alone in the empty living room.

The only sound in the whole manor appeared to be the ticking of some distant clock somewhere and it was slowly driving him mad.

Richard was in Bludhaven.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . .

Todd was in Crime Alley.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . .

Timothy had disappeared into one of his safehouses.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . .

Father was at Wayne Enterprises - somewhere he usually spent as little time as possible.

Damian stared at his phone.

The clock continued to meticulously count the seconds.

When had he become so soft and spoiled? When had he begun to take it for granted that he should have an older brother at his side at any time, with the simple push of a button?

When had he forgotten how to be alone?

Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . .

He could call Jon.

Tick . . . tick . . . tick. . .

But then he would have to explain–

TICK. . . TICK . . . TICK . . .

The hand holding the phone trembled and he let it drop.

In the awful silence, the ticking seemed to become louder and louder until it almost shook his whole frame, rattled his teeth, drowned out every other thought.

He grasped his head in his hands, hunching forward and wondered desperately. . . .

. . . Why did he have the terrible feeling that time was running out?

Chapter Text

Maddie toppled through the front door, her clothing and hair burnt, disheveled and covered in blood. She gripped her limp arm with white knuckles, the only indicator of how much pain she was in. Skulker flew in close behind, one arm around a limp body wrapped in linen, the other firing a weapon at something behind them. The Fenton shields slammed back into place, covering the whole property, hiding the humans and ghosts inside.

Jazz and Sam immediately rushed towards Skulker while Jack and Vlad ran to Maddie.

Loud, panicked voices mixed into an indecipherable cacophony.

“They’re out of their minds!” Maddie ground out, half outrage, half grief.

Her voice silenced the tumult around her. She hissed and flinched as Jack gently touched her ruined arm, led her limping to the couch to sit.

“They think Amity Park is the problem! They talk like we've all been tainted by ghosts or something and that it's somehow spreading. They think the only way to destroy the Ghost Zone is to cleanse Amity Park first!” Maddie listed her head to gaze at the burden in Skulker’s arms,“We have to contact the Justice League. No matter the cost.”

Outside, the air raid sirens began to wail.

“I can’t get through!” Tucker cried, fingers flying on his PDA, “I can’t reach them! I've boosted the signal as much as I can. I should be able to reach anywhere on the planet when I'm hooked to Fenton tech! Someone’s deliberately blocking us!”

“Then we need to send someone out of town.” Maddie’s voice shuddered, “Quickly. Far enough away that they can message the Justice League!”

“We should send the kids–” Jack started.

“No way!” Tucker snapped, “I’m the only one here who can get into the GIW’s systems and stop all this!”

“And I’m not leaving Danny!” Sam snarled from where she was pacing restlessly

Jazz looked helplessly back and forth between them and then her mouth firmed, “I’ll go!” she volunteered, “And I know how to get there fast!”

She turned a glare on Johnny who grinned wildly. Kitty frowned.

“Take this.” Tucker handed an earpiece to Jazz. He gave the other to Jack, “So you can stay connected with us.”

“Right.” Jazz placed the bud in her ear.

Maddie tried to sit up but gasped out painfully and leaned weakly back onto the couch. "Their new tech is based on . . .on Danny. It completely obliterates humans and ghosts. . .”

"Don't try to get up!" Vlad urged gently.

“They can actually kill ghosts now?” Tucker asked in a small voice.

Kitty caught an unneeded breath and glanced towards the front door in alarm, “You could have warned us before Johnny left!”

“Copy that.” Jazz’s voice rang through the earpiece, “We’ll be careful. They won’t see us coming.”

Jack pulled up a stool hurriedly and sat down beside the couch with the first-aid kit but Maddie grabbed his hand, “It's not just new weapons, Jack. They have a bomb. An enormous bomb. And they mean to use it.”

“This is bad. . . “ Tucker muttered nervously, "This is sooo bad."

“And we haven’t heard back from any of the others in a while.” Sam said with quiet dread.

“The others?” Maddie murmured questioningly.

“We sent a few of the ghosts out to stir up trouble. Ember, Desiree, the Box Ghost and Spectra. We thought they’d be a great distraction while you got Danny.” Sam explained.

“And they could all be dead now! Really dead !” Kitty cried. “I’m not staying here! I’m going after Johnny!”

“Tell her Johnny says to stay put!” Jazz tried.

“You’re safer here!” Sam countered but Kitty shook her head furiously and shouted, “I’m going!”

“Let her out.” Maddie slurred tiredly.

“Maybe take the kids . . . take the kids out of here. . . “ Maddie whispered, clutching at Jack's hand. Their intertwined fingers were slippery with blood.

Jack had frozen after cutting off the burnt and melted remains of Maddie’s jacket. Just gone completely still.

“M-Maddie?” Vlad said in a strange voice, his eyes wide, his face almost childlike.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.” Maddie breathed softly, tears finally spilling down her cheeks as Jack stared at the ruin of her abdomen and chest.

“M-Mrs. Fenton . . .” Sam stepped forward, pale and horrified.

“What’s happening?” Jazz’s panicked voice, “What’s going on?”

“Take the kids and run. . . .” Maddie’s bloodless lips barely moved and then she stared glassily at the ceiling.

Tucker’s PDA fell to the floor.

“No!” Sam sobbed out angrily at Tucker, her mascara smearing down her face in wet trails, “Keep going! You can’t stop!”

Shaking, Tucker picked the PDA back up, but everything was blurring. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t breathe.

“She’ll become a ghost. . . “ Vlad muttered quietly, staring down at the woman he loved. “Any second now. Any second.”

Jazz's tinny voice over the earpiece was almost shrieking, “What’s happening! Someone tell me what’s going on!”

Jack said nothing.

“She can’t become a ghost . . . “ Skulker told them slowly, heavily. “Those fools out there made sure of it. . . “

“I can’t do this!” Sam shouted, grabbing at her hair, “I can’t just stay here anymore and do nothing!”

“I should take you kids to the ghost zone. . . “ Jack said slowly in a strange voice. “And destroy the portal. . .”

“Dad . . . Dad!“ Jazz wailed.

“And what about the town?” Sam countered through angry tears, “My parents are out there! Tucker’s parents are out there!” She turned to glare at Skulker, “And none of us will be safe anyway. They destroy the town and then their path is clear to the ghost zone.”

“If we destroy the portal . . .” Jack repeated quietly.

“There are such things as natural portals.” Sam cut him off, “These psychos are fixated! They will find a way!”

“That is, unfortunately, an accurate description of our predicament,” Skulker nodded grimly, “So what’s the plan?”

“They’re rounding up the townspeople.” Sam turned on Vlad, “You have to do something Mr. Mayor! You have to tell people to fight back!”

Vlad blinked at Sam as if he didn’t really comprehend her words. And then he shuddered, took a breath and straightened, “We can broadcast from my office.” he said without inflection.

Jack touched his ear piece with trembling fingers.

There was nothing but static. . .

“Dad, can you hear me? Dad?” Jazz held onto Johnny as hard as she could as the motorcycle careened through the air, skidding between buildings, up buildings, dodging and tearing a blazing trail through the city.

The choppers were closing in fast. Armored vehicles were taking shots at them from down below.

Johnny’s hair whipped wildly, his teeth were bared. He shouted, banking hard as something burning hot blasted past them on the right. And then wheeled as another blast came from the left.

“Dad. . . “ Jazz gasped out, her skin blistering from the heat. “Dad, they’re . . .”

Johnny screamed.

“Citizens of Amity Park, fight for your lives and the lives of your children!” Vlad’s voice rang out strong and urgent over every television, computer, speaker and radio, “Do not let the GIW fool you! They are here to destroy our beloved city and its people! You must fight back!”

Outside the mayor’s office the city was on fire, people were screaming, sirens were wailing. But worst of all was the high sibilant whine and hiss of the GIW’s newest weaponry. A burst of blinding blue-white light that left charred bodies and ghostly vapor in its wake.

Rage had always come quickly and easily to Vlad. He should have been full of it. He should have been raging and destroying everything around him. Teaching his enemies the true meaning of fear. . .

Nothing felt real anymore. Nothing seemed important.

He could hear them crashing through the outer doors. . .

Vlad listlessly set his message to loop with steady fingers so that it would continue to broadcast even after he was gone.

The bodies of their friends and neighbors were strewn out in the streets.

Skulker drove the armoured vehicle they’d commandeered recklessly through the burning streets and through crowds of GIW agents.

“I have schematics but we’ll need to establish a physical connection!” Tucker shouted, “We can take over their systems and shut the main weapon down!”

“We’ll still have to deal with the hand-held weapons.” Sam hollered back, grunting as she hefted the rocket launcher over her shoulder.

“But at least the city will still be standing! We’ll have a fighting chance.”

Skulker roared and hurled a desk at the agents, following it up with a volley of missiles. Sam fired again and again at their pursuers.

Buying Tucker precious seconds.

Life was supposed to mean something to her. It was why she’d become an ultra-recyclo vegetarian – because life was precious. Sacred.

She grit her teeth, tears streaming down her face as she shot another man in the chest, watched the stunned look on his face as he fell.

She knew, even if (when) they won, this blood on her hands -human blood- would never come off. . .

“We’ve got it! We’ve got it!” Tucker screamed excitedly, sweaty and exultant, leaping up and down in triumph.

—only for his PDA and the computers around him to glow a sudden, violent green.

“Now I, Technus, Master of Technology, am in control of the most powerful weapon in the world!”

“NO!” Tucker screamed. “NO, you idiot! You idiot! Get out of there!”

“ALL WILL BOW DOWN TO MY INTELLECT!”

“It’s based on ghost physiology, you moron!” Tucker howled, sobbing, “Get out of there before you trigger it! Get out of there before–”

Jack stood quietly in the eerie silence of his basement lab, the shivering, too thin body of his youngest child gasping feverish and unconscious in his arms.

Maddie was completely still on the couch upstairs.

His earpiece was completely silent.

“. . . I’m sorry, Danny.” Jack murmured, slow and muddled like molasses. “I don’t know how I let things go this wrong. . . “

He squeezed his son gently.

“Ghost hunting was supposed to be an adventure. . . something we could do together. I . . . I didn’t think–even when we started focusing on weapons— I didn’t think . . .”

He stared at the wet green patches staining the otherwise white linen.

He swallowed, “I betrayed your birth mother. I betrayed you. . . I promised . . . I promised her when– when she entrusted you to us, that you’d be raised in peace. That’d I’d love you and raise you in peace” his voice broke and he swallowed hard, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks.

“My son . . my son. . . My Danny. . . . My little Danyal. . . “

Jack placed the limp body into the Spectre Speeder.

“My little spaceman. . .”

He pushed the button for autopilot and stepped away from the vehicle.

“Daddy loves you, Danny. Daddy loves you so much. Daddy will always love–”

“Be calm, children! Be calm!” chanted a man driving a stolen van, almost to himself as he drove as fast as he could away from Amity Park.

The teenagers huddled in the back were bruised and bloodied, some sobbing, some disturbingly quiet and hollow-eyed.

“We’re not being followed anymore. We’re almost out. We’re almost out!” the man continued doggedly. “I’ll get you out –”

He glanced up into the rearview mirror and felt his breath catch, his foot reflexively slamming harder on the gas pedal, as behind him the entire city of Amity Park was engulfed in a blinding, swirling, bluish-white light.

The flash of brightness caught his student’s eyes and he saw them turning to look, some gasping in disbelief, others beginning to scream and cry.

He could see the edge of the shockwave coming. . .

Gritting his teeth, pedal to the metal, sweat dripping into his eyes, his chest tight in a horrible way that he hoped wasn’t a heart attack, he locked his eyes on the road in front of them, “Hang on, children! Hang on!”

The world around them was growing brighter. The van was beginning to shake.

He couldn’t help looking up once again into the rearview mirror.

“War and Peace. . . “ the man whispered.

And shut his eyes.